Chapter XII: Local Gambling (9)

Under the rule of Mayor A. A. Ames, a fanatic on the question of personal liberty and the right of a man to do as he pleased, irrespective of the rights of the remainder of the community, gambling was conducted “wide open,” with no restrictions save those placed upon it by the gamblers themselves. It was too wide open to suit the majority of the conservative voters and that large element which, though liberal- minded, had some respect for decency and some regard for outward appearances; and at the next election, Mr. George S. Pillsbury, a member of the famous firm of millers and brother of the Governor, was elected mayor, defeating Mayor Ames by a decisive majority.

Under his rule a complete transformation took place. It was from one extreme to the other; the difference between Cimmerian darkness and the bright glare of the noonday sun, could not be more marked than the revolution that occurred in the administration of municipal affairs, and the city was governed on the plan of a small New England village. Square gambling was prohibited, but a notorious brace game was in full blast during the entire Pillsbury administration.

Mr. Pillsbury was a candidate for re-election on the strength of the record made in the cause of pure morals, but he was ignominiously beaten by Dr. Ames. Upon the election of the latter, the change resembled the oscillation of the pendulum from one extremity of its arc, to the other. It was one extreme to the other. Ames proceeded again to enforce his peculiar views on personal liberty. His previous administration had been peculiarly objectionable to the orderly and law abiding citizens, who set about devising methods to check the scheme of “throwing the town wide open.”

Right here a word of explanation concerning the power and authority of the mayor, is essential in order that a proper understanding of the matter may be reached. Under every administration down to the last one of Dr. Ames, the mayor was the head of the municipal government, possessing supreme authority over the police officials, whom he could appoint and dismiss at his own sweet will, without let or hindrance. It can be easily perceived how this privilege might be abused and the power perverted, if not prostituted to unlawful ends. Thus the whole machinery of the law was under the control of one man, resulting in a veritable despotism on a small scale, under which one person, the mayor, was the important factor for good or for evil in the city.

Gamblers, saloon-keepers, and the sporting classes generally, welcomed his election with one accord. City ordinances regulating liquor selling, were to be calmly and quietly, but no less surely ignored. And they were. The result was a saturnalia of crime. Saloons ran all night if so minded and customers demanded it. The gambling houses were in full blast, and the city swarmed with thieves, fakirs and blacklegs of every description, from smooth adventurers of the Traylor and Post pattern, down to the petty shell worker and flimflam fellow. It was time to call a halt.

As it so happened the state legislature was in session, and it was determined by good citizens, irrespective of political affiliations, to go before that body and pray for relief. After much consultation, a bill providing for the appointment of a police commission, consisting of two members from each dominant party, with the mayor as ex-officio member, was formulated. The bill was passed by both houses, and became a law through the Governor’s signature. Under its provisions the appointing power was conferred upon the council, and well-known citizens received the honor of serving as members. This act left the mayor shorn of power and authority. The police commission ruled and decided whether city ordinances should be enforced or not; the same body controlled the police, and decency once more ruled. At a recent session, the legislature amended the bill by reducing the number of the police commissioners to two, outside of the mayor, who still remained an ex- officio member. Nevertheless gambling has existed, and still exists, no matter what the political complexion of the city administration may have happened to be.

With this brief introduction it is only necessary to give a condensed history of the games and devices that have flourished in Minneapolis, the object of whose proprietors has been to lure money from those, who, it must be admitted, would have liked to acquire wealth by means far removed from honest toil and labor.

At all the houses here have run the usual games ordinarily conducted in so-called first-class gambling rooms; that is to say, faro bank, roulette, stud poker, and hazard, with various short card games. Faro bank is king. Its legitimate percentage in favor of the bank is of course responsible for its large following of devotees, and the great majority of players make their way to that table immediately upon entering the halls. A “tenderfoot,” who was playing against a brace game out West, chanced to inquire what limit would be given him. The reply was “from John Smith’s green cloth to the blue sky of heaven.” This limit it may be remarked _en passant_, was somewhat liberal, but in view of the kind of game that was being dealt the proprietor could afford to let a man place his money freely. In Minneapolis it has been slightly different, the limit being generally placed at fifty to doubles, and twenty-five to cases. Occasionally a well-known player who was known to be possessed of plenty of funds has been allowed two hundred and a hundred. This, however, may be called the exception rather than the rule. The play against faro bank has always been fairly steady, with the houses winning in the long run. Comparatively few heavy losses or winnings have ever occurred in Minneapolis. Dink Davis, Pat Sheedy, and other celebrated high rollers have rarely visited the city. The only heavy loss suffered was in the old house at 205 Nicollet Avenue, when Frank Shaw, Flanagan and Sullivan were the main proprietors in 1887. This may scarcely be called a legitimate losing, but rather the result of what some gamblers would call a bit of sharp practice. The house had only been running in full blast for a few months. Everything was wide open, in the heyday of Mayor Ames’ administration. Among the dealers employed was Mr. Harrington, a very good all around gambler, and withal a first-class artist. Harrington was well liked by his employers, who thought highly of his capabilities, and had perfect confidence in his honesty, so far at least as they were concerned. But as events proved they were mistaken. Mr. Harrington had a particular friend, one Mr. Hayes, who gambled on the outside strictly, and was known as a hard faro bank player. These two smooth gentlemen, it is said, put their heads together and concocted a plot, which was in brief that Harrington should “throw off” the game to Hayes. The scheme worked to a charm, and Mr. Hayes’ luck became proverbial among those that were leading the gay life of a sport. Matters ran along for some little time, and it was not until the game was some $10,000 loser that the house management began to suspect that there might possibly be something wrong, or in gamblers’ parlance “an African in the woodpile.” A quiet investigation ensued, and it was not long before the chair that knew Mr. Harrington, knew him no more, forever. Then it was that the erstwhile familiar faces of Messrs. Harrington and Hayes became as shadows of the past, though ever and anon their forms would rise like Banquo’s ghost to haunt the Macbethian forms of the combination that had heard that there was honor among gamblers. But Harrington has paid for his duplicity in this instance, as the better class of gamblers utterly refuse to have anything to do with him, and he stands a fair chance of being forced to earn an honest livelihood by working at his trade—that of a compositor.

Next to faro bank, in point of attraction, is roulette. Watching the ball go round has a certain grim fascination for a great many people—and then it is quick action for your money; nervous people are not compelled to wait in suspense to know whether they lose or win. A simple twist of the wrist, the little ivory is whirling around and around until it stops in one of the many compartments—red or black, or in the fatal zeros that sweep the board. But still the number of devotees at its altar is not large. In fact, in the whole town there are not half a dozen men who prefer roulette to faro, provided that they have any considerable amount of money. Those with only a few dollars in their possession play it in order to get a stake to play faro. A journalist here, and part proprietor of one of the daily papers, is the only individual that has achieved any notoriety in this direction. It was no unusual thing for him to win or lose a thousand dollars at a sitting. This sort of play is, however, exceptional, the majority of players against the wheel scarcely having funds enough to buy a stack of white checks.

Next in order of popularity come hazard and stud poker. The former is chiefly patronized by beginners, and the latter by that numerous class of men who consider themselves a little wiser than their fellows. Neither the greenhorn nor the player who is wise in his own conceit takes into consideration the enormous odds in the one game, or the large “rake off” in the other, regulated only by the conscience (?) of the dealer, and his knowledge of just what the players will stand. Therefore the harvest is ripe and is quickly garnered. Hazard has never been much of a favorite, the play being scarcely extensive enough to meet expenses; while on the other hand, the stud poker tables have always been well patronized. The short card games in these public rooms were usually played by professional gamblers for the sake of whiling away a few hours, with just a sufficient monetary consideration to vary the tedium and monotony.

The above statements apply to every gambling house that has been ever run in the city, conducted strictly on the square. But, as in all other trades and professions, there are grades. The habitues and customers of one establishment seldom visited any of the others, and in the most exclusive resort, that at 219 Hennepin Avenue, the common crowd were refused admittance by the colored servitor that guarded the door. At least good clothes and the appearance of a gentleman were necessary to effect an entrance into this particular lair of the tiger.

But passing mention must be made of one establishment that flourished under the highly moral Pillsbury administration, and was permitted to continue unmolested, while other houses were compelled either to close up or run in such a furtive way that a search warrant was almost a necessity in order to find the haunts of the animal. This place was and is known to all sports, thieves, confidence men, and blacklegs generally, throughout the length and width of the United States. It is designated as the “Elite,” and is located on Nicollet Avenue! To the uninitiated and the casual observer it is simply a saloon, and a very good saloon at that. But up-stairs was a complete gambling outfit of the most crooked description. It was commonly believed to be a notorious brace house, and many a man was there “skinned” out of hundreds of dollars. It was given out that it was the only place in town where a man with a penchant for faro bank would be accommodated, and he was accommodated with a vengeance. “Steerers” were numerous in those days, and embraced such shining lights in that particular line of industry as “Sammy” Barrett, “Jerry” Desmond and “Charlie” Dean, while distinguished confidence men, such as William Traynor and George Post, did not disdain occasionally to introduce a wealthy fly into the spider’s web.

At this time the place was reputed to be owned by Col. Wm. Tanner and Bill Munday. Tanner is a cool-headed man, who has never been known to let an opportunity of “getting the best of it” go by. He has always prospered and is worth several thousand dollars in cash, besides some rather valuable real estate. Munday, on the other hand, was somewhat of a handicap and a dead weight on the institution. His personal habits were most objectionable; he was irritable, quarrelsome, and a general nuisance. Finally, in sheer desperation, Col. Tanner purchased his interest, and Munday retired to his native heath at Burlington, Iowa, where at last accounts he was engaged in defying the prohibitory law.

This “brace” house flourished like the proverbial green bay tree, until the advent of Mayor Ames, when the regular houses were permitted to open. Strong pressure was brought to bear, and Tanner, after removing from the “Elite” to a place on Washington Avenue north, finally effected a compromise, abandoned his game and became a partner with Sullivan and Flanagan.

In the meantime, Frank Shaw announced his intention of defying Sullivan and Flanagan and opening up whether they liked it or not, and he too was admitted into partnership. Then Sawyer, who with “Bob” Potee used to run the famous No. 3 Missouri Avenue in Kansas City, appeared on the scene, and declared his intention of corralling some of the large profits that rumor said were going into the pockets of the combination. He was permitted to open, paying the combination a certain percentage of the profits. However the screws were gradually put on, and ultimately he was forced out of business in Minneapolis and went to the Pacific coast. Sawyer was anything but popular with either his associates or patrons. He was cold with the former and supercilious toward the latter. Within the last year or so Mike Shelley, a native of Minneapolis and a local sport and saloon-keeper, has become identified with the gambling interests, taking the place of John Flanagan, who has retired on a moderate competence, amassed by a strict attention to business, and the practice of careful domestic economy.

At the present writing, in the year of grace, 1889, gambling is nominally confined to one club, which, however, is really open to the world at large and all mankind. In fact, gaming is just as general as it ever was, except that the combination, instead of running two or three establishments in open defiance of the better class of citizens, now quietly runs but one house and only caters to the moneyed men and clerks, the “dinner-pail brigade” not being considered desirable customers.

Such is a succinct account of gambling in Minneapolis, as the term gambling is generally understood. But other forms of the vice flourish unchecked and unmolested by the authorities. Bucket shops, under the guise of produce exchanges, the “clock,” policy playing, “crap” games, and the sale of lottery tickets run on as though there were no let or hindrance imposed by State law or municipal ordinances. All these enjoy an excellent amount of patronage.

The bucket shops naturally get the largest play, that is to say the heaviest. The immense amount of wheat daily received at the city for consumption by the mills, has made Minneapolis a great grain receiving port, and this fact has doubtless given an impetus to this form of gambling or speculation, as it is more politely termed. The Minneapolis Chamber of Commerce resembles the Chicago Board of Trade, and it is there that the “big guns” try to rob one another on the turn of the market, just as one card sharp tries to fleece another, or a greenhorn, on the turn of a card. Those outside the pale must perforce be satisfied to stake their money in the bucket shops against the Chicago quotations. In the opinion of many reflecting men this is the most pernicious form of the vice, because a large number of eminently respectable people persist in not regarding it as gambling, but consider it as merely a speculation. This delusion blinds many victims who would not for the universe enter a gambling house and put down their money on a fair layout, or bet on the whirl of the roulette wheel. The play against the bucket shops is steady, and it is a cause for wonder where all the money comes from. Margins are continually being wiped out of existence, but the speculators exhibit a recuperative power that is truly astonishing, since after being “knocked out” in one round, they continue to “come up smiling” in the next, and, strange to relate, no instances have been made public of employes who have stolen in order to continue a wild career of speculation, that ultimately ended in flight, prison, or suicide. Either fickle fortune must distribute her favors with comparative impartiality, or speculation does not run riot with that exuberant luxuriance known in many of the large cities. The chief establishment in Minneapolis, that of Pressey, Wheeler & Co., failed about a year ago, not from lack of business, however, but because it was not content with a steady income from the commissions received and became imbued with the idea that it was within the realm of possibility to beat the Chicago Board of Trade. It was a costly experiment; the firm went under, but its business reputation was such that plenty of financial backing was easily secured, and they are now doing business at the old stand, with a third party interested. The minor establishments of this character pursue the even tenor of their way, apparently satisfied with the assured prospect of a comfortable living.

The “clock,” a device worked automatically, which at intervals of half a minute threw out two cards, which were supposed to represent stock or bonds, the lower one showing that the stock fell a certain notch below the previous quotation, and the upper card a like increase, has had a checkered career, but on the whole cannot be said to have made an abundance of money for its owners. In its fundamental principle it resembled the faro bank, but it was a little more trouble to play the game, and its patrons were never very numerous, after the novelty of the thing had worn off. It was beaten out of almost a thousand dollars one day through collusion between a player and the man whose duty it was to place the cards in the clock at the beginning of the day’s work. But this trick has never been repeated, one experience of the sort having rendered the managers cautious in the extreme.

Policy has always been considered the colored man’s game, and 4-11-44 has a familiar sound to thousands of people who have not the faintest conception of the meaning of “saddles” and “gigs.” Its patrons in Minneapolis are confined mainly to negroes, although occasionally a Caucasian will hire a dark-skinned waiter or barber to play a few numbers for him, just to tempt the fickle goddess. It is a difficult matter to get the facts in this particular instance, for the reason that the policy vendors are almost constantly under police surveillance, and a raid is by no means infrequent. This may be attributed to a lack of political influence, and the small proportion of colored people to the entire population.

Craps, a dice game, always a favorite with the colored man and brother and the street gamin, is being introduced into the more aristocratic circles, and has become quite popular as a game of chance. The quaint expressions of “come seven, come eleven,” “where’s my point,” “little Joe,” “big Dick from Boston,” and the like, are now frequently heard from the lips of the high-toned white gamblers as they carelessly toss the dice in the early morning hours, after the regular games are closed. The play at times runs high among the white votaries, but in their hands it lacks the sauce piquante with which the game is flavored by the lowly descendant of Ham.

Minneapolis can boast of a full-fledged pool-room, owned and controlled by Frank Shaw. Since the inauguration of winter racing at New Orleans and the tracks at Guttenburg and Clifton, the place runs during the entire twelve months of the year. The establishment purports to give track odds, but in many instances shortens them materially. The proprietors have decidedly the best of it, for the play is constant, and as it is for small amounts there is but little chance for the house to make any considerable losing on any one book. The bookmakers are very cautious, and refuse big bets on “short horses” for fear they may be worsted through some sort of crookedness. In the books as low a wager as fifty cents is recorded, and in the combination and Paris mutual pools the small sum of twenty-five cents is thankfully accepted. It can be easily seen that the temptation is great to invest a quarter or a half with a bare possibility of having it returned tenfold in the brief space that elapses between the time the shout that “now they’re off,” and the moment when the announcement of the winners is made in the dulcet tones of the telegraph operator. One glance at the habitues of the pool-room shows plainly the folly of attempting to beat the races. The majority of them are poorly dressed, unkempt and frowsy. Every dollar that finds its way into their possession goes straight into the hands of the bookmakers, and hope gradually changes into passive despair, as the names of the leaders of the race are announced, and as the quarters are recorded by the “tick-tick” of the electric instrument. Those, and there are many of them, that have crossed the last ditch and are unable to raise a cent, spend their time in “touting” and importune each newcomer to buy this or that horse, confidently assuring the victim that it would be impossible for him to lose. In the event of their prediction being realized, they get a dollar or so, and proceed to back some “short” horse, on the improbable chance of “making a scratch” and winning several times the paltry amount which they have staked. This lost, the same old process is repeated. It is lose, lose, lose. The bookmaker is a veritable Minotaur, who must be appeased by frequent sacrifices. Honor, friendship, truth and reputation, all go in the futile attempt to gain money without the proper equivalent of hard work. It is pitiful, yet still the law does not interfere, and the work of destruction goes on, fresh recruits being constantly received into the ranks, only to find that instead of being generals, they rapidly degenerate into very ordinary privates, to whom the shelter of the guard-house is a boon. The rarity of Christian charity is amply exemplified daily in this pool- room. No matter how much money a victim may have spent, he would not be given enough to buy a loaf of bread, and he knows this only too well. The owner and employes grow fat and prosper, while the victim dresses in rags, and oft times goes hungry after investing his last half dollar or quarter in a vain endeavor to win back the money that has gone before.

Although the sale of lottery tickets is prohibited by law, and papers are forbidden to print advertisements of lotteries, the statutory provisions are openly violated, at least so far as the sale of tickets is concerned. There is no avowed agent, as is the case in several other cities, but people who wish to invest have no difficulty in securing the tickets without going through the formality of sending their money to New Orleans. There are several saloons whose proprietors are really the representatives of the lottery companies, and would-be purchasers, who are well known, experience no trouble. The drawings are posted in a conspicuous place, so that it is extremely easy to ascertain just how near you have come to drawing the capital prize. This once fell to two Minneapolis citizens who had invested a dollar apiece, and in return received $15,000, less the cost of collection. Numerous small prizes have been drawn at various times, yet the greater portion of the money spent for lottery tickets never comes back in the form of prizes, at least to Minneapolis. But as a well-known Chicago gambler once sagely remarked, “A sucker is born every minute,” and there is no lack of people to buy in the vain effort to get something for nothing.

On the whole, it may be said that while Minneapolis is not so bad as some other cities that might be named, there is nevertheless a wide field for a law and order society that would not be afraid to promote and aid, by all proper methods, the rigid enforcement of the laws against gaming.

In what has been said above, no reference has been made to private gambling. Its constant increase, however, is a fact as certain as it is deplorable. Gentlemen gamble at their clubs and teach the mysteries of poker to their wives, their sisters and their daughters, by their own firesides. Ladies of recognized social position may be found who are as familiar with “jack pots” and “bob tail flushes” as they are with the etiquette of the drawing room. Herein lies the most dangerous menace to the future of the young men of the city. Men who are willing to subscribe liberally toward a fund to be used in the suppression of public gaming seem to be cursed with such an obliquity of moral vision that they are able to see nothing objectionable in playing a “social game for trifling stakes” amid the more refined surroundings of home. If they could but have their eyes opened to the possible consequences of such infatuation, they would hesitate long before they ran the risk of transforming the “home” into a stepping stone in the path to the “hell.”

GAMBLING AT PEORIA, ILLINOIS.

For more than thirty years public gaming in Peoria has been practically under the control of a syndicate, the members of which all belong to the same family. For a considerable period but one establishment was in operation, which was conducted by three brothers. Of late years, however, three other houses have come into existence, but it is asserted that they do business only by the grace of the brothers in question. Of the latter it may be said that they are known no less for their liberality than for their calling. While they have made money rapidly, they have spent it freely, and the coarse notes which they have gathered in across the green cloth have gone into circulation without delay. A member of this same family, now well advanced in years, after having “sown his wild oats,” entered politics and was elected mayor of the city. As to the general character of his administration the author is not in a position to speak. The fraternity generally, however, have been under the impression that the suppression of gambling was not one of the ends which he set before himself as the goal of his ambition. In fact, rumor (which, not being particularly well founded, it would be charitable to disbelieve), has it that a rather near relative more than once appealed to the chief executive of the city for protection when hard pressed by men who claimed to have been victimized in his house.

Outside of the select circle already referred to, Peoria has never proved a particularly profitable locality for sporting men. In itself, it presents not a few inherent attractions to men of this stamp. It is the focus of several lines of railroad, the seat of a populous and wealthy county, and, above all, the centre of the enormous whisky trade of the West. Its floating population is at times very large, and it is not to be wondered at that the favored few who have enjoyed a monopoly in gambling have found it easy to accumulate large sums. These considerations have lured other professionals to the spot, but only to find that for them to attempt to make headway against an impregnable combination was like endeavoring to fight against fate.

Confidence men have always been apt to regard Peoria as a favorable field in which to look for “suckers.” At times a moderate degree of success has attended their efforts in this direction, especially on occasions when a particularly large crowd was present in the city, as, e. g., during the holding of State fairs and of political and other combinations. But on the whole, the city has been comparatively free from the incursions of this class of swindlers. Perhaps it may have been the abundance and cheapness of the “golden corn juice” which interfered with their operations. Either the sharpers or their dupes may have found the indulgence of one vicious appetite so easy as to interfere with the gratification of another. However this may be the fact remains that the city has never proved a specially remunerative theater for this description of thieves.

The best known proprietors of banking houses in Peoria have been the Warner brothers, Becker, Hale and Christy. Most of them are understood to have succeeded fairly well in their chosen calling, and this circumstance is undoubtedly due in a great measure to the character of trade for which Peoria is noted. The distillers spend money freely and the circulation of bank notes is brisk. Moreover, the customers of these gentlemen are generally men who are not averse to seeking recreation in an attempt to break the bank.

In fact, it is a matter worthy of comment that intemperance and gaming usually go hand in hand. Like twin monsters they stalk through the land with giant strides, leaving despair and ruin in their track. They supplement each other in the work of destruction. Liquor inflames the passions, stimulates the imagination, blunts the moral sense, and impairs the reasoning powers of the mind. The natural result is that the victim of the alcohol habit is easily incited to patronize the gaming hell. On the other hand gaming always induces excitement, and leaves either fictitious exhilaration or profound mental depression. In either case the gamester has resort to stimulants; it may be to heighten the exuberance of his joy; possibly to drown the recollection of his troubles or stifle the voice of conscience.

It is not the intent of the author to imply that Peoria differs from other cities of its size in this regard, nor would he say that the presence of a distillery in any town tends directly to promote and foster gambling. Yet any great center of the liquor traffic naturally draws thither a class of men who can see nothing specially wrong in gaming, and who, finding such resorts in active operation at any given point, are apt to extend to them an active patronage.

So far as lottery gambling is concerned, there cannot be said to be much of it at Peoria. The negro population—to whom “4-11-44” appeals more closely—is by no means so large as in various other cities in the State. Nevertheless, tickets in the Louisiana lottery, and even “eighths” are purchasable at these resorts where young men “do most congregate.” “The fangs of the serpent are far-reaching,” nor does there seem to be any way of limiting the number of victims unless the snake be “scotched” as soon as it raises its head. All honor to the State, which, although well-nigh hopelessly in debt, declined to surrender its moral freedom to the grasp of the anaconda. All honor to the National Administration whose executive head has called attention to the best remedy for removing this blot upon the civilization of the nineteenth century. All shame to the truculent spirit (not to say venality) which rampantly raises its head not only to defeat public policy but also to debauch public morals.

GAMBLING IN INDIANAPOLIS.

From time immemorial, the capital of Hoosierdom has been recognized among sporting men as a poor locality in which to attempt to conduct a gambling house. Not so much because of the higher morality of the inhabitants, nor on account of the rigid enforcement of the laws against gaming, as for the reason that the authorities, from the patrolmen on the “beat” up to officials of high rank, have been wont to levy such heavy assessments upon keepers of resorts of this character that the business has, as a rule, proved unprofitable. It is a common saying among “crooks” that at Indianapolis “arrangements may be made” for committing any offense, from picking a pocket to “cracking” a safe or “sand-bagging” a man, but such privileges “come high.”

Still, gambling hells have existed in the capital of Indiana since a date considerably antecedent to the war, and it is probable that it will always be possible for men who wish to seek their own ruin through this channel to find the means at hand. A demand has never yet failed to create a supply. Before and during the war the principal resorts were those of Basey, Noe, Reynolds, Dunn, Russell and Mortland. These men were old residents and enjoyed more privileges than were accorded to parties from abroad who came later, such as Snow, Barnes, O’Neill, Martin, Steiger, Williamson, Warner, Swift and others, who did business from time to time at subsequent periods. Mortland prospered, and invested his winnings in real estate, erecting a fine block on Illinois Street nearly opposite the Bates House. A certain portion of the building was especially designed for the purposes of a gambling house. Howard Barnes opened the “Maison Doree,”—an elegant resort, where faro, poker and keno were played, and having elegantly furnished rooms for the accommodation of private parties. The establishment enjoyed a large patronage, as did also the “House of Lords” and the “Dollar Store.” But the rooms most favored by gamblers of the higher social classes, and where the play was heaviest, were those of O’Neill, situated at number ten Canal Street. The proprietor also opened a keno room, but considering the demands of the authorities extortionate, refused to comply with them, and war upon him was declared at once. His houses were raided night after night, and he himself repeatedly indicted. The result was that he found his business destroyed and left Indianapolis for the more congenial latitude of Washington City.

“Brace” faro kept even pace with the “square” game, but was always conducted on a cheap scale and by men who, as a rule, made little money. Among the best known faro dealers, who were said to belong to this class, were Jake Fidler, Charley Young, “Sock” Riley, Fred White, Clift Dougherty, “Little Walter” Ellworthy and George Slaughter.

While the officials were able, however, to keep the banking games in check, poker never could be wholly suppressed. For twenty years there has been a game at the Bates House, at which many members of the Legislature have taken a hand while in attendance at the Capital. Among the players have been numbered some of Indiana’s “favorite sons”, men who attained distinction at the bar and in public life, the names of some of them being as familiar as household words to the great body of the American people. Other games of poker were played at rooms conducted by Ridgeway, Forbes, Stark, Baker, McCarthy, Richardson and Sim Coy.

Owing to the fact that Indianapolis is a great railroad centre, the Union Depot in that city has always been a favorite stamping ground for confidence men, who have reaped a golden harvest from the verdancy of their dupes. They have varied their operations at the depot proper by “working” the trains running into and out of the city. “French” Joe, “Big” Kendricks, “Sock” Riley, Lou Houck and George Duvall, each with a mob of confederates at his heels, have at various times made Indianapolis their headquarters.

At present, the city is known to the fraternity as “closed”, and the only gambling worth mentioning is the poker game at the Bates House, to which reference has been already made; and another game played over the English Opera House. Both these are commonly regarded as “swell” resorts, and at times high stakes change hands across the table.

What has become of the notorious characters who, as has been said, formerly pursued their nefarious calling here? A few of them have found other employment in the same city, while others have betaken themselves to new fields. Snow died of consumption. Ridgeway was found dead in his bed. Mortland was thrown out of his buggy and killed. Basey committed suicide by jumping from the window of the Occidental Hotel. His son-in- law, Major Russell, once known as the genial man about town, witty, well informed, and a universal favorite, poisoned himself. Ben Law, Jr., is serving a life sentence for murder. Ben Law, Sr., is awaiting trial on a charge of having killed his hired man while asleep in bed, being instigated thereto by jealousy. George Leggett, a businessman and gambler, and Ed. Brown (sometimes known as “scar-faced” Brown) a notorious character from Lexington, Kentucky, induced a man named John Acky, a good-natured, clever fellow, but too fond of liquor, to enter into a partnership with him in the conduct of a gambling house. Acky had just received the last installment of his inheritance from his father’s estate. Brown was to be the dealer for the establishment. The game was opened, and Acky was easily led away from the room and freely plied with liquor. When he became sober and returned to the place, he was told that the bank was broken, some unknown man having “won the roll”. This story appeared to Acky to be rather flimsy, and on inquiry he soon satisfied himself that he had been swindled. He went to Leggett and, telling him what he believed, asked for a loan of twenty-five dollars. Upon being refused, he procured a pistol, and, after taking several drinks, went in search of Leggett and Brown. He found them in a billiard hall and shot Leggett, killing him instantly. He was convicted of murder and hanged. Brown subsequently came to a miserable end, being killed in a brawl at a mining camp at Leadville. “Verily, the way of the transgressor is hard.”

The defalcation of Wm. E. Denny, Assistant Postmaster at Evansville, is too fresh in the public mind to call for repetition here. His confession showed that he had lost the money embezzled across the green cloth.

Such instances as these are by no means exceptional in the history of gambling and gamblers. A great poet is authority for the assertion that “man never is, but always to be blest.” Practical experience teaches that man who have become infatuated with the gaming habit always defers reformation until the “morrow,” which never comes. The philosopher who seeks for illustrations of the truth of this statement need not confine his researches to the City of Indianapolis or the State of Indiana. The defalcations of trusted employees—whether in the employ of the government, of private corporations, or of individual firms—are too plentiful to call for enumeration. The hard-earned accumulations of the poor, stored—dollar by dollar—in the vaults of savings banks, go to swell the revenue of the professional blackleg, dissipated through the peculations of a dishonest official. Trust funds, the sole support of widow and orphan—are sunk in the pitiless insatiate maw of the “tiger,” and the man whose death bed was rendered an easy couch because of his confidence in the honor of the friend in whom he trusted, is powerless to arise in defence of those who were dearer to him than his life. O, the cursed maelstrom, in whose dark eddies, fortune, truth, honor, find a common grave! Would God that my feeble voice might arrest the man, who, playing on the outer edges of the whirlpool, is destined to be sucked into its vortex. Of a truth, the path to the gaming resort is one “whose steps take hold on hell.”

A single remark may be made as to the interference of the Indianapolis authorities with public gaming. While, as has been said, the city is, in gambler’s parlance, “closed,” the outrageously flagrant manner in which the gullible stranger is fleeced at the Union Depot has brought the name of the town into disrepute. Gaming resorts are few, but confidence men reap a golden harvest from travelers, and the municipal government lifts not a finger in their protection.

GAMBLING IN SPRINGFIELD, ILLINOIS.

The city of Springfield—one of the most beautiful of its size in all the West—being at once the capital of the State and an important railroad centre, could be hardly expected to be free from the incursions of professional gamblers. While public sentiment among the better class of citizens is outspoken in condemnation of the vice, there has never been any determined effort on the part of the authorities to suppress it. This may be ascribed partly to the weighty political influence in municipal affairs wielded by the “tougher” elements of society, and in part to the fact that only occasionally do the gamblers so far outrage public decency as to flaunt their business before the eye of the public. The practical result of this state of affairs has been that a sort of tacit truce exists between the law-abiding citizens and this class of law-breakers.

The locations of the public gaming-houses, some half dozen in number, are nearly as well known as are those of the public buildings; and while they cannot be said to be “wide open,” it is by no means difficult for a player to gain admission. They derive their revenue from all classes, and they number among their patrons even men who are openly loud-voiced in denouncing them. More than one wife and mother in Springfield (and of what city cannot the same assertion be made?) sheds, in secret, bitter, scalding tears over the ruin—financial and moral—which these plague spots, these veritable pest-houses, have wrought in homes which were once the abodes of comfort, happiness and peace. But the hells reap their richest harvest during the biennial sessions of the General Assembly, when members vie with lobbyists for places around the tables. More than one law-maker has lost, at a single sitting, in such houses as Brewer’s or Manning’s, more than his _per diem_ and mileage for the entire session.

Another prolific source of revenue is found in the vast numbers who flock to Springfield from the rural districts, either to interview their representatives in the legislature, or to inspect the State House and view the other lions of the capital. Strangers of this description are promptly marked by the “ropers” and “steerers” as their own peculiar prey, and woe betide the luckless wight who listens to their blandishments.

The Springfield gambling houses are not, as a rule, models of elegance in their appointments, nor are they—if the prevalent impression is well founded—above resorting to chicanery when it appears probable that tortuous devices may be safely and profitably employed. For many years “Tom” Brewer (who later transferred his residence to Chicago) was the acknowledged “king of the games.” He was recognized as a good dealer and was a “high roller” at other houses, his impassive countenance betraying no emotion in the moment of either loss or triumph. Of irascible temper, however, and fond of the “flowing bowl,” he was continually involved in brawls. At such moments he cared for neither “God, man, nor the devil;” and was quite as likely to select the Governor of the State as a victim on whom to empty the vials of his wrath as anyone else. Legislators and tramps, clergymen and “bums” all stood on one common level. Other members of the local fraternity wondered at his temerity, admired his daring, and followed his lead, yet at the same time his personal popularity was never very great.

Not all the gambling at the Illinois capital, however, is carried on at public resorts. Private poker clubs were formerly numerous. For years, certain young bloods about town were wont to gather at the Leland Hotel for a friendly game of “draw.” In another, yet not remote, quarter of the city assembled professional men and men of letters, the roll of members comprising some of the brightest minds of Central Illinois, for purposes of relaxation and social intercourse. Here poker constituted one of the chief diversions, and play, although, it is said, never high, was constant. In private houses, also, the same mania finds its devotees. “_Facilis descensus Averni_;” and it is but a step—and a comparatively short one—from “five cent ante,” in the drawing room, to poker in the gambling hell, that portal through which so many thousands have entered on the path whose end is the felon’s cell or the outcast’s grave.

To the credit of the young and middle aged men of Springfield, however, be it said, that at present poker clubs are by no means so flourishing in Springfield as they were a few years ago. The reason unquestionably is that some of those who in former days, were among the chief patrons of the game have had their eyes opened to the dangers that lurk in “social gambling.” During the palmy days of the “clubs,” professional gamblers sometimes succeeded in securing admission to a game as visitors. “Once upon a time,” as the children’s chroniclers say, a polished stranger “from the East” appeared at the leading hostelry. His dress was faultless; his manners frank and engaging. He was introduced into the “club,” where he soon rose in general esteem. He played freely, and at first with varying success. Gradually the “fickle goddess” selected his chair as her permanent resting place and it was not long before his extraordinary “luck” had pretty well “cleaned out” the habitues of the rooms. Play fell off, and the stranger’s “business” having been accomplished he bid his late friends adieu and disappeared from public view. Suspicion did not then rest upon him, but subsequent developments proved conclusively that he was a professional “pigeon plucker,” and an accomplished expert at every form of card-sharping.