Chapter II: Part 2

"But it does, Florence, to be turned upon in that way. What did he say about me at the table this morning? He surely wasn't angry because I didn't get up in time for breakfast."

"Surely not. He didn't say anything, only asked where you were, and kept staring at the place where you sit."

"And is that the reason you asked me if I had seen him?"

"Yes, that and the fact that he didn't appear to be well."

"I don't understand it. Why, he has joked with me all my life, sick or well. It hurts me." And, after a slight pause, he added: "I wonder if he turned on George, too."

"It wouldn't seem so, for as he was going out of the breakfast room he put his hand on brother's shoulder and leaned on him."

Bodney came in at that moment, and, looking about, asked if they had seen Goyle. As he was going out, Howard called him.

"Oh, George, just a moment. Have you noticed anything strange about father this morning?"

And Bodney was master of himself when he answered: "Nothing much. Only he didn't seem to be as well as usual. It will pass off. I wonder where that fellow is?" He strode out, and they heard him talking to Goyle in the hall.

"Put his hand on George's shoulder and leaned on him," Howard mused, aloud. "Then he is not well. George knows it and doesn't want to distress me by telling me. Did he sit up late?"

"No. Mr. Bradley had to go early, and just as he was taking his leave brother stepped in and asked your father to help him with an important matter--some abstract of title, or something of the sort, and they went out and he didn't come back. I don't want to distress you, but your mother said that he walked the floor nearly all night."

"Did she? And George knows more than he is willing to tell. But why do they try to shield me? It would be all right to shield mother if anything were wrong, but if there's a burden, I ought to help bear it."

She besought him not to be worried, assuring him that nothing had gone very far wrong and that everything would come right. The clearness and the strength of her mind, her individuality, her strength of character, always had a quick influence upon him, and he threw off the heavier part of his worry and they talked of other matters, of the reception which he had attended the night before. He repeated a part of a stupid address delivered by a prominent man, and they laughed at it, he declaring that nearly all men, no matter how prominent or bright, were usually dull at a reception. And, after a time, she asked: "What sort of a man is Mr. Goyle?"

"Oh, he's all right, I suppose; smart, full of odd conceits. I don't know him very well. He comes into the down-town office quite frequently, but he rarely has much to say to me. George seems to be devoted to him."

Florence shook her head, deploring the intimacy. "I don't like him," she said. "And Agnes says she hates him. She snaps him up every time he speaks to her." She looked at Howard, and saw that his worry was returning upon him. She put the hair back from his forehead, affection's most instinctive by-play, and said that he must not be downcast at a mere nothing, a passing whim on the part of his father. "And it was only a whim," she added.

"But whims make an atmosphere," he replied.

"Not ours, Howard--not yours, not mine. Love makes our atmosphere."

"Yes," he said, putting his arm about her, "our breath of life. Florence, last night you were depressed, and now I am heavy." Their heads, bent forward, touched each other. "And your love is dearer to me now than ever before." Their faces were turned from the hall door. The Judge silently entered, and, seeing them, started toward them, making motions with his hands as if he would tear them apart. But Howard, after a brief pause, spoke again, and the old man halted, gazing at them. "Florence, you asked me, last night, if anything could separate us, and now I ask you that same question. Could anything part us?"

"No," she said, "not man, not woman, nothing but God, and he has bound us together."

"With silken cords woven in the loom of eternity," he replied; and the Judge wheeled about, and, with a sob, was gone, unseen.

"What was that?" Florence asked, looking round. "It sounded like a sob."

"We were not listening for sobs and should not have heard them," he replied. "It wasn't anything."

William came in, clearing his throat. "Don't let me disturb you," he said, as they got up. "I don't belong to the plot at all." He began to look about. "I left my pipe somewhere."

"I don't think it's here, Uncle William," said Howard. "You surely wouldn't leave it here; and, besides, I don't hear it."

There came a sort of explosion, and upon it was borne the words, "What's that? You don't hear it? You don't? Now what have I ever done to you to deserve such an insult? Ha! What have I done?"

"Why, nothing at all, Uncle William."

"Then why do you want to insult me? Haven't I been your slave ever since I came here? Haven't I passed sleepless nights devising things for your good? You can't deny it, and yet, at the first opportunity, you turn upon me with an insult."

"Why, Uncle Billy," said Florence, "he wouldn't insult you. He was only joking."

Howard assured him that he meant no insult, whereupon the old man said: "All right, but I know a joke as well as anybody. I have joked with some of the best of 'em in my time, I'll tell you that. But it's no joke when you come talking about not hearing a man's pipe. It's a reflection on his cleanliness--it means that his pipe is stronger than a gentleman's pipe ought to be. But I want to tell you, sir, that it isn't. It's as sweet as a pie."

Howard said that he knew the import of such an accusation. "But," he added, "I was in hopes that it was strong, not to cast any reflection, you understand, but to show my appreciation of what you have done for me. I was going to give you that meerschaum of mine."

The old man's under jaw dropped. "Hah? Well, now, I do believe that it has got to be just a little nippy; just a little, you understand."

"I wish it were stronger than that, Uncle Billy."

"You do? Howard, you have always been a good friend to me; our relations have been most cordial and confidential, and I don't mind telling you--to go no further, mind you--that my old pipe is as strong as--as a red fox. Yes, sir, it's a positive fact. Er--where is your pipe?"

"In my room. You may go and get it as soon as you like."

"All right, and I'm a thousand times obliged to you. Florence, did that preacher go away so suddenly last night because I settled the fact that it was on the tenth?"

"Oh, no, he left because he had an engagement."

"Well," drawled the old man, "I don't know about that. Why, confound him, I've got a right to settle it as my memory dictates. Does he think that I'm going to warp my recollection just for him?"

"What was it all about, Uncle Billy?" Howard asked.

"About a story I was going to tell."

"Did you tell it?"

"Did I tell it! Well, after a fashion; after they had badgered me. Then I made a mess of it. How do you expect me to tell a story when--look here, ain't you trying to put it on me? Hah, ain't you?"

"I don't know what you mean, Uncle William."

"Oh, you don't. The whole kit of you are devilish dull all at once."

"You surely don't include me," said Florence.

"No, not you, Florence, but all the men about the house. Why, I went up to John, just a while ago, and I'll be hanged if he didn't snap at me like a turtle--told me to get out of his office. Shall I tell you what he said? He said that last night he went to hell and was still there. There's something wrong with him, as sure as you live."

Howard turned away and began to walk up and down the room. "There it is again," said he. "I no sooner convince myself that it might have been a mere whim when something comes up to assure me that it is something worse. And the look he gave me, Florence. It hurts me." He walked toward the door. Florence asked him if he were going to his father. He turned and stood for a moment in silence. "No, I am going down town. I don't feel right. I am hurt. But don't say anything to him, please. I am going to wait and see what comes of it. And please don't say anything to mother." He took his leave, and Florence went to the window and looked after him as he passed down the street. She spoke to William. "I wonder what the trouble is," she said.

"I don't know," William replied, ruffling his brow, "but as for that preacher--the first thing he knows, I won't let him come here. John has insisted on his dropping in at any time, because he used to know his father, but I'll attend to that. Why does a great, strong fellow as he is want to throw away his time? Why doesn't he get to work?" He sat down and, looking toward the piano, asked Florence to play something. "I'd like a tune quick and high-stepping," he said. She told him that she was in no humor. "In that event," he insisted, "you might play the Maiden's Prayer."

"Not now, Uncle William. Here's Agnes. She'll play for you."

"No, I won't," said Agnes, coming into the room. Florence expected the old fellow to snort his displeasure at so flat a refusal, but he did not. He bowed to her and said: "Now, that's the way to talk. I like to have a woman come right out and say what she means. Well," he added, getting up, "I am not in your plot, anyway, so I'll bid you good morning."

As soon as William was gone, Agnes went to the piano, seated herself on the stool and began to ripple on the keys. "There are times when we feel like dabbling in water but don't want to swim," she said.

"And you are dabbling now," Florence spoke up.

"Only dabbling. Oh, I forgot; your dressmaker is out there, and I came in to tell you."

"I'm glad you didn't forget it entirely. Oh, and I must tell you something. Brother says that Mr. Goyle is smitten with you."

Agnes, still rippling, turned half way round, sniffed and turned back. "I hate him so hard that it's almost second cousin to love," she declared.

"Don't let it be any closer kin, Agnes. There is always danger in a first cousin."

Agnes, still rippling, sniffed contemptuously. "He's been following me around all the morning. How I love to hate him."

The voice of Mrs. Elbridge was heard, calling Florence, who answered that she was coming, but she halted long enough to say to Agnes, mischievously, that she might learn to love him if she loved to hate him. Both love and hate were kindred passions, with but a thin partition between them. As she was going out, Agnes shouted after her that, if she ever loved him she would hate herself, and then, just as Goyle and Bodney entered the room, she added: "We tar and feather such fellows in Quincy."

"You do what in Quincy?" Bodney asked.

And Agnes, without looking round, repeated: "Tar and feather such fellows."

Goyle knew that she meant him, but instead of kindling resentment, her words aroused in him an additional interest in her. He looked at her as in the rhythmic sway of her graceful form, the nodding of her shapely head, she kept time with a tune, half remembered, half improvised; and, turning to Bodney, he asked in tones too low for the girl to hear: "Has she got any money?"

"I think she has."

"Leave me alone with her."

"Do you want to snatch her purse?"

"Do you suppose I want a hair pin, a pearl button, a scrap of verse, and a three-cornered piece of silk that no man can match? I mean, has she got any money in her own name?"

"I haven't asked her, but I think she has."

"Then leave me alone with her."

Bodney stood looking at him. There was a continuous fascination in the fellow's affrontery. "All right," he said, but quickly added: "We've got to go down town, you know. I'll step into the office and wait till she gets through with you. You may hypnotize me, but--"

Goyle cut him off with a gesture. "Nonsense! When she gets through with me! Cool, coming from a man whose honor I have saved at the risk of my own. But no cooler than the bullet you threatened me with."

"I wish I had given it to you," said Bodney.

"Do you? It's not too late, if you are bent on murder. But that's all right," he broke off, with a wave of the hand. "Leave me alone with her."

Bodney went out and Goyle sat down on a sofa, gazed at the girl, cleared his throat, coughed; but she did not look round. "What are you playing? May I ask?"

"You have asked," she replied, without looking round.

"But you haven't told me."

She left off playing, and slowly turned on the stool to face him. "A tune they played in Quincy one night, when they tarred and feathered a man," she said. And then, with a smile of sweet innocence, she added: "You were never in Quincy, were you?"

"Well, I was never tarred and feathered there."

"Possibly an acknowledgment that you were never in the town. Oh, somebody told me that you were once connected with opera."

"Then somebody flattered me. I couldn't sing in a chorus of scissors grinders."

"A sort of Chinese opera, I inferred," she said.

"Well, that's about the only sort I could sing in. Chinese opera, eh?"

"Yes, that's what I inferred. It was something about Sing-Sing. Isn't that Chinese?"

"Oh, it sounds like a joke," said he.

"And it wasn't?" she asked, in surprise. "Then it was serious opera instead of comic. They call serious opera grand, I believe. And is that the reason they call larceny grand--because it is serious?"

For a time he sat in a deep study of her. How different from the nervous and impressionable weakling who had just left the room; and in looking at her he felt that his eyes refused to glitter with a snake-like charm; they were dull and flat, and he drew his hand across them. "Do you know that I like you?" he said.

"Then I do not bring up an unpleasant recollection."

"No, a beautiful vision." And now he had more confidence in his eyes, for he got up and moved toward her. She slipped off the stool and stood looking at him.

"Won't you play something for me?" he asked.

"I don't want to play. I don't feel like it."

"Let your fingers dream over the keys."

"My hands aren't asleep." She moved off from him.

"You aren't afraid of me, are you?".

She looked him in the eye. "My grandmother killed a panther," she said.

He drew his hand across his eyes; he recalled what Bodney had said--about her getting through with him. In the dictionary of slang there is a word to fit him: the resources of his "gall" were boundless. "Why don't you like me?" he asked. "Am I ugly in your sight? Do I look like a villain?"

"If you looked more like a villain you'd be less dangerous."

"That's cruel. We may not see each other again. Won't you shake hands with me?"

"What is the use of shaking hands with a stranger we are never to see again," she said.

"But if we shake hands," he persisted, "we may not be strangers."

"No? Then, we'll not shake."

William strolled through the room, halting just long enough to assure them that he was not trying to break into the plot. "He's a queer duck," said Goyle.

"I wish there were more of his feather," she replied. "He can pass through without stopping."

"And so could I but for you," he rejoined.

She snapped her eyes at him. "What nerve tonic do you take?"

"Nature's. She gives me a tonic whenever I look at you."

She laughed at this, and she said: "I am woman enough to like that sort of talk, but I don't like you."

"You like my talk, but don't like me. Why this discrepancy? Why don't you like me?"

"Oh, I don't know. You give me the creeps."

"You are very frank."

"Oh, the creeps would make anybody frank."

Bodney appeared at the door and cleared his throat to attract attention, and he was bold enough to ask her if she had got through with him. "Long ago," she answered. "And now you may have him."

Goyle bowed to her. "Mr. Bodney and I may go out of town for a day or two--or, at least, I may. Will you permit me to hope to see you upon my return?"

"Oh, certainly," she said, and he felt that at last he was making some sort of progress. "I thank you," he replied.

But there was something more to follow. "You can hope that you may, and I will hope that you may not," she said.

Goyle bowed, and looked at her, admiringly. "Miss Needle-tongue," he said. "But you catch me."

Bodney told him to come on, but he lingered a moment longer. "May I tell you good-bye?" he said, and she replied that she hoped so. As the two men were going out the Judge came in. Goyle glanced at him, but Bodney averted his eyes. The old man's face smote him with reproach.

*CHAPTER V.*

*SHE SAID THAT SHE WAS STRONG.*

Agnes, accustomed to joke with the Judge, now looked at him in astonishment; his face was haggard and his eyes appeared hot with suffering. But he had not forgotten his dignified courtesy. He bowed to her, bade her good morning, as if he had not seen her earlier in the day, said that he was looking for Florence, and asked if she would please find her, that he desired to see her--alone. Agnes went out at once to find Florence, wondering what could have happened to throw so serious a cast upon the countenance of the Judge; and, left alone, the old man walked slowly up and down the room, talking to himself. "I don't know how to tell her, but she must know of it. It is my duty to tell her." He paused, looked toward the door, and continued: "I am striving to master my heart by smothering it; I must be the master of a dead heart." He paused again and resumed his walk. "Yesterday the world was a laugh, but today it is a groan. I wonder if he saw me. No, and toward him I must bear the burden of silence. A mother's heart would see the accusation in his face, and I must protect her. To keep her shielded is now my only duty in life. That decadent book! It was a seed of degeneracy. Ah, come in," he said, as Florence appeared at the door. Howard had called her eyes the searchlights of sympathy; and she turned those lights upon the old man's face as she came into the room, slowly approaching him.

"Did you send for me--father?"

"Father," he repeated with a catch in his breath that sounded like a sob. "My dear, it comes sweet from your lips, but it falls upon me with reproach." He stood with bowed head, and Florence put her hand on his arm.

"What is the matter, father? Why, you need a doctor. Let me call--"

"No!" came from him like a cry of pain, as he stepped back from her. "You must call no one. Wait a moment. Oh, I've got iron in me--but it is cold, Florence--cold. Wait a moment. Wait."

She stood looking at him, wondering, striving to catch some possible forecast of what might follow, but in his face there was no light save the dull hue of agony. Gradually he became calmer, and then he said: "I am going to tell you something; it is my duty."

"Yes, sir, I am listening."

"But are you strong enough to hear what I have to say?"

"Does it take strength to hear?"

"In your case--yes."

"Then I am strong." She moved closer and stood resolutely before him, looking into his eyes.

"Florence, I know your character; I know that your word is too sacred to break, but this is--is an unparalleled case, and you must be put under oath."

"Judge, instead of administering an oath, you ought to take medicine. Why, I never saw you this way before."

She was about to turn away from him, but he took her by the arm. "Look at me. You never saw me this way before. No. In all my experience I have never heard of a man being so situated. I am a novelty of distress. And you must know what my ailment is, but you must take an oath, a sacred oath, not to speak of it to any human being."

"But if it is so awful, why should I know it? Tell it to a physician."

"It is my duty to tell it to one human being, and you are the one."

"Then I will take the oath."

"Hold up your right hand." She obeyed him. "You swear never to repeat what I tell you."

"Yes, I swear."

"By the memory of your mother?"

"Yes, by the memory of my mother."

"And you hope that the Eternal God may frown upon you if you do not keep your oath?"

"Judge, this is awful."

"Are you going to back out now? Are you afraid?"

"I am not afraid. I hope that the Eternal God may frown upon me if I do not keep my oath."

He took her hand, the hand held high, and said to her, "You will keep your oath. It was disagreeable to take it, but the measure was necessary. And now comes the agonizing part of my duty--and I wish I had died before being compelled to discharge it. Florence, you know that I love you."

"Yes, sir, I know it--could never have doubted it. But why do you speak of it? What has it to do with--"

"Wait. This shall be explained. You must not marry my son."

She stepped back from him and from her clear eyes, always so sympathetic, there came a flash of anger. "You are mad, Judge," she said.

"I grant it. He drove me mad--he sent me to hell."

"And you would drag me there."

"I would save you. It is a duty I owe to the memory of your father and to my own love for you. Yes, it is my duty."

"And it is my duty," she said, with now the light of sympathy in her eyes, "to send for a doctor."

"Wait. You have not heard. Remember you have sworn."

"Yes, and I will keep my oath. No, I have not heard. You have told me nothing. You have simply been mad enough to say that we must not marry." The sympathy had gone from her eyes. "You must know that Howard and I have all our lives lived for each other. I owe you nearly everything, I would make almost any sacrifice for you, but when you even intimate--but I will not reproach you," she said, softening again. "You have not told me why," she added, looking into his eyes.

"My child, it would break your heart."

She straightened and put her hand upon her bosom. "I offer my heart. Break it."

"Florence, my son Howard is a thief."

She snatched her hand from her bosom and raised it as if to strike him, but one look of agony from his eyes, and her hand fell. "Judge, how can you say such a thing? Something has tripped your mind, but how could it fall so low?"

"My mind has not been tripped. It is as firm as a rock. And you cannot doubt my word. Last night I saw him stealing money from the safe, as if I had not always supplied all his wants, and at an alarm which I had fixed, little dreaming who the thief might be, he ran away--a thief. You cannot doubt my word."

Stern of countenance and with her eyes piercing him, regal as the barbaric queens we find in ancient fiction, she stood, and the moment of her silence seemed an age to him. "I pity your word and I doubt your eyes."

"You may pretend to, but you cannot in your heart. You must believe me when I say that I saw him."

"You saw a vision. Your eyes have lied to you."

"I saw no vision. My eyes told a heart-breaking truth. Florence, would you marry a thief?"

"Sir, I would marry Howard if I knew that he had stolen a hammer to nail a god to the cross."

The old man wheeled away from her with a cry. "Oh, crumbled hope--"

Mrs. Elbridge swept into the room, gazing at the Judge. "Why, what is the matter?"

The old man gripped himself together. "Why, I--I have just received a dispatch, telling me--telling me that my brother Henry is dead. Don't tell William--brother Henry is dead."

Mrs. Elbridge went to him and put her arm about him. "And you loved him so," she said. "Poor, dear man, but we must bow to it, and pray for consolation. Don't--don't grieve so, dear. Where is the message?"

The old man looked at Florence. "It distressed him so that I tore it to pieces and threw it away," she said.

The Judge gave her a grateful look. "I thank you," he muttered.

*CHAPTER VI.*

*THE WEXTON CLUB.*

When Goyle and Bodney left the house they went to a place known as the Wexton Club. This institution was not incorporated under the laws of the state, but its affairs were conducted under a law, the law that governs the game of poker. The public dinner pail gaming house, the pickpocket of the laborer, had been closed; the grave-countenanced faro dealer and the sad-eyed man who turned the roulette wheel; the hoarse-voiced "hazard" operator, and the nimble and enterprising thief of the "stud poker" game, now thrown out of visible employment, stood at the mouth of the alley waiting for "good times" to return. "Bucket-shops" broke out in new places, once in a while, and there was the occasional raid of a poolroom, but it was agreed that public gambling was a thing of the rough and disgraceful past. But the poker clubs! They were not traps set for the man in overalls. His pennies and dimes were not solicited. Of course, if he saved up capital to the amount of five dollars, and came with a reasonable appearance of respectability, he could get into the game, but he was not wanted. The board of trade men, the race horse man, the merchant, doctor, lawyer, and particularly the fool with money, furnished the life blood of the enterprise. Shrewd gamblers risked their money and pronounced the game "straight." And it was "straight." The "house" could not afford to permit any "crooked" work. Its success, the "rake off," depended upon its own fairness to everyone playing in the game. But the "sucker" does not need to be cheated to lose. His own impulses will sooner or later rob him of all the money he can borrow, beg or steal. The man who plays for recreation wants it, not after a long season of waiting for a good hand, but at once; and putting in his money he draws to "short" pairs or to every four straight or four flush. He may have an encouraging spurt; he may make a hardened player wince and swear under his breath or even above it, but in the end, and it comes on apace, he shoves it back, broke, and the old-timer rakes in the money. Within recent years several fine young fellows of good standing and of bright prospects have looked for diversion in poker and have found state's prison. The road to the penitentiary is paved with four flushes.

At the Wexton, Goyle had introduced Bodney as his friend, Mr. Ramage, and out of that familiarity which comes of constantly gazing into a man's countenance, in the effort to determine what he holds in his hand, they shortened his name to Ram. The young lawyer had played with friends, and had won, not because his friends were kind to him, but because they were as experimental in drawing cards as himself, and because they were possessed of equally as much curiosity. The "gentleman's game" is a trap door, and it is easy enough to fall from "Billy" and "George" and "Tom," down into a hell on earth. This is not a tirade against gambling, for the horrors of that vice have engaged the ablest of pens, but to give life in poker clubs as it really exists, the attractive with the distressful. Indeed, the distress is not seen in the club. The victim gets up with a jocular remark, and silently goes out, wishing that he were dead, and resolving deep within his disconsolate heart that he will never enter the place again. Then his heart lightens. He is saved. He has lost money that he could not afford to lose, the very bread of his family; but he will do so no more. He has strength of purpose, an object in life, a position to maintain. He is now grateful to himself for his own strength of will. The next morning he goes dull and heavy to his business. He shudders as he enumerates the amount of money that he has lost within the past few weeks; counts it all up, and then, with a sickening pang, recurs a forgotten sum, borrowed from a friend and not yet returned, though he had promised to "hand" it back the next day. The details of his business are wearisome. At noon he goes out. At the "Club" they serve a meal, better than he can get at a restaurant. He will go there, but not to play. He plays, to get even--will try it once more; and at evening he sends a message to his wife--"detained on important business." He has several checks, and one by one they melt away in the pot. He is broke. He wants more chips. He has money in the bank, he declares; but the man at the desk is sorry to inform him that it is a rule of the "house" not to take personal checks. He is angry, of course. He wants to know why a check which he offered earlier in the evening was accepted, and is told that the other check was different, that it was signed by a name better known than his. Then he tries to borrow from the men who have won his money; he knows them well, for he has played with them day after day. They have laughed at his jokes, when with the fool's luck he has drawn to "short" pairs and won. They have no money to lend--would really like to accommodate him, but have obligations to meet. And so he goes heavily down the stairs again, with murder in his heart. But his heart lightens after a time. He will never, so help him God, play again. But he does. Ah, it is less bad to be bitten by a mad dog.

Goyle was but an indifferent player. He well knew the value of a hand, but was too impatient to wait. But no despair fell upon him when he lost. He did not look forward to a time when circumstances or the force of his own resolution might set him beyond the temptations of the game, but to the time when luck might give him enough money to put him in the game. Bodney, however, was bound soul and body. He could hardly think of anything else. Dozing to sleep he saw aces and kings; asleep, he drew to flushes and straights. In his sleep he might win, but only in his sleep. His soul seemed to have been created for this one debasing passion. It was his first, for though impressionable, no enthusiasm had ever mastered him, and love had never set his heart aflame. But now he was an embodiment of raging poker, not for gain, but for the thrill, the drunkenness of playing. His bank account, never large, was gone. For himself and for Goyle he had taken small sums of money from the Judge's safe, and had lived in the terror of being confronted with the theft. And he actually believed that had the old man accused him or even strongly suspected him he would have killed himself. Suspicion was now averted, but at the cost of what infamy! He could face Howard; he could endure with a show of self-control the agonized countenance of the old man; but remorse gnawed him like a rat. It was not to be supposed that Florence would be enlightened as to the coolness which, of necessity, must fall between Howard and the Judge, but it could not be otherwise than a grief to her. He could look forward and see the wonder in her eyes, and then the sorrow that must come to her. It is one of the misfortunes of a weak man to have a strong conscience, a conscience with not enough of forecast to prevent a crime, but one which agonizes when a crime has been committed. His only solace was to play. Then his mind was chained to the game, the dealing of the cards, the scanning of his hand, to the thrill of winning, the dull oppression of losing. Upon entering the club he had been surprised to see so many old and venerable looking men sitting about the tables. One had been a prominent lawyer; another, a doctor, had turned from a fine practice to waste his substance and the remainder of his days. There was good humor, an occasional story of brightness and color, but upon the whole the place was sad, everyone seeming to recognize that he was a hopeless slave. The scholar turned poker-player, thinks and talks poker. He forgets his grammar, and puts everything in the present tense. "How did you come out last night?" someone asks, and he answers, "I lose." Many of those men would not have gone to a "regular" gaming house; they would not have played faro or roulette, but the blight of poker fell upon them, to weaken them morally, to make them liars. Sometimes an old fellow, getting up broke, would turn moralist. One said to Bodney: "The chips you see on the table don't belong to anyone. You may go so far as to cash them and put the money into your pocket, but it isn't yours. You may spend it, but you will borrow or steal to make it good to the game." Among those daily associates engaged in the enterprise of "wolfing" one another there was a fine shade of courtesy. No one can be politer or more genial than a winner, and a loser is expected to shove over the pot which he has just lost, in case the winner cannot reach it. In return for this the loser is permitted to swear at his victor, but etiquette demands that it shall be done in a mumble, as if he were talking to himself. The winner can stand a great deal of abuse. In the game there were usually two or more players put in by the "house," cool fellows, educated to know the value of a hand or the advantage of a position. They were the "regulars," the others the militia. The dash and the fire of the militiaman sometimes overrode the regular, but there was no question as to the ultimate result. The regular knew when to put down a bad hand; he could be "bluffed" by the militiaman. But he could afford to wait; he was paid to sit there; it was his business. Bodney, however, could not wait. With him, impulsive hope was leaping from deal to deal, from card to card, from spot to spot.

When Goyle and Bodney arrived the members of this family of interchangeable robbery were ranged at a long table in the dining room, eating in hurried silence or talking about the game. Occasionally someone would venture an opinion of a race horse or a prize fighter, but for the most part the meal was solemn and dull. Laughter was not unknown, but it was short, like a bark. This does not mean that there was a want of fellowship in the club, but eating was looked upon as a necessary interruption.

"You are just in time," said the proprietor of the house, not a bad fellow, a business man, accommodating as far as he could be, yielding sometimes to the almost tearful importunity of a fool to the extent of lending him money never to be returned. "Sit down. Fine weather we're having."

"A champagne day," said Goyle, sitting down and spreading a napkin across his knees. "How's the game going?"

"Oh, fairly well. We've got a good run of customers. They know that they are perfectly safe here."

"What's become of that fellow they called Shad?" asked a man at the end of the table.

"Oh, that fellow from Kansas City? He's gone. I didn't want him. I think he'd snatch a card."

Bodney was silent. He could hear the rat gnawing at his conscience, and he yearned for the moral oblivion of the game. Leaving Goyle at the table, he arose, and walked up and down, then went into the room where the game was forming. He had but fifteen dollars, but with this amount he felt that he could win. He bought ten dollars worth of chips, musing upon the fact that he had a reserve fund of five dollars. The game was all jackpots, twenty-five cent ante, and three dollar limit, except when the pot was doubled, and then the limit was five dollars. While a man at his side was shuffling a deck of new cards, Bodney began to meditate upon the policy which he intended to pursue. He would not draw to a flush or straight except when there were several "stayers," for then the percentage would warrant the risk. He would not draw to a pair below kings, nor open on jacks next to the dealer. If the pot were opened and came around to him, even without a raise, he would not stay on a pair of queens. If he opened on one pair and was raised, he would lie down. He would not stand a raise under kings up. Goyle came in, bought twenty dollars worth of chips, and took a seat on the opposite side of the table; and the game proceeded, with seven players. Bodney opened on a pair of kings. All passed around to Goyle. He looked at his hand a moment, and said: "Only one in? Well, I've got to stay. Give me that one," he said to the dealer, meaning that he wanted one card. "Got two little pairs here, and I won't raise you unless I help." Bodney drew three cards and did not help his kings. He bet a white chip. "Now I'll go down and look," said Goyle. "Bet you three dollars," he added. Bodney was smoking. He puffed at his cigar. "I don't know about that," he said. "What do you want to raise me for?"

"Got to play my hand, haven't I?" Goyle replied.

Bodney put his cigar on the table and thought. "Well, you've got 'em or you haven't. I'll call you." He threw in three blue chips, and Goyle spread a flush. "Thought you said you had two little pairs," said Bodney, as Goyle raked in the pot.

"I hadn't looked at my hand very close."

"You knew what you had all the time. Stayed on a four flush with only one man in. Of course you can always make it against me."

The deal went round and round, and occasionally Bodney won a pot, once a large one, and now as he stacked up his chips he felt at peace with the world. He laughed and joked with a man whom he had never met before; he did not see how he could lose. He threw off the rigor of his resolution, and drew to a pair of sixes, caught the third, raised the opener three dollars, and won the pot against aces up. Then his senses floated in a limpid pool of delight. Goyle opened a pot. Bodney raised him, having kings up. "I've got to stay," said Goyle. "Give me one card." Bodney drew one and made a king full. His heart leaped with joy. "What do you do?" he asked.

"Bet three dollars," said Goyle, putting in the chips, and Bodney was almost smothered in exultation.

"I raise you three."

"Raise you three," said Goyle.

"Are you as strong as that?" Bodney remarked, striving to hide the delight that was shooting through him. "Well, I'll have to raise you three."

Goyle began to study. "Well, if you can beat a jack full, take the money." He put in his three dollars. "King full," said Bodney, and Goyle threw down his cards with an oath. "Of course you couldn't make that against anybody but me. It's what a man gets for not playing his hand before the draw. I ought to have raised you back. Had three jacks all the time. But I didn't want to beat you."

"Looked like it when you made that flush."

"That's ancient history."

Bodney did not reply. He was behind a bulwark of chips, and his heart beat high. He began to tell a story. The winners were interested; the losers did not hear it. In the midst of the story, just below the climax, he had a hand beaten for six dollars, and the story, thus broken, fell into silence.

"What was that story you were going to tell?"

"It didn't amount to anything," said Bodney, but not long afterward he won a ten dollar pot, found the fragments of the story, lying at the bottom of silence, and gave them voice. The winners laughed; the losers did not hear it.

A minute legitimately employed may seem an hour; an hour at a poker table may be but a minute.

Someone asked the time. Bodney looked at his watch, and said that it was five o'clock. He was nearly seventy dollars ahead, with the reserve fund still in his pocket, and was resolved to quit very soon. Just then Goyle emerged from a contest, broke. "Let me take ten," said he. Bodney hesitated a moment. "Say, I've got to pay for--"

"Oh, I'll give it to you tomorrow. Let me take ten."

He passed over the chips, but with a feeling of depression. "I may be broke pretty soon," said he. "And I can't let you have any more."

"Broke pretty soon! Why, you're even on your whole life. You got all my money."

"I haven't won as much from you as you have from me."

"That's all right. My day may come."

Bodney was determined to play no longer than dinner time. Then he would cash in. Goyle's stack grew to the amount of thirty dollars. Bodney was glad to see it grow; ten dollars of it belonged to him. He did not care for ten dollars; he had loaned Goyle ten times ten, and did not expect to recover the sum, but chips were different, and especially now that they fed his passion and dulled his conscience. Goyle got up. "Let me have that ten till tomorrow," said he, and Bodney did not say anything, but his spirits felt a sudden weight. He was pleased, however, when Goyle went out, for there were to be no more raids upon his stack. Dinner was announced. He motioned to an attendant upon the game, and his chips were taken over to the desk.

"Going to quit us?" a man asked.

"Yes. This is the first time I've won," he added, by way of apology.

"Have dinner before you go," said the proprietor, coming forward.

"I don't know that I've got the time."

"Just as well. You've got to eat anyway."

He went out to dinner, and was permitted to be vivacious. An old fellow, sitting on his right, remarked: "I'm glad to see you win." Others said that they were glad to see him win. It was surely a very genial company.

*CHAPTER VII.*

*WENT OUT TO "DIG."*

After dinner, when the game was reorganized, Bodney looked on for a few moments, still alive to the keen pleasure of winning; and just as he was about to go out, a thought struck him. What was the use of quitting now that he had luck? He had waited for it a long time, and now that it had arrived he was going to throw it away. He might just as well win a hundred and seventy as seventy. He could at least try ten dollars, and quit if he found that fortune was against him. There was one vacant seat and he took it. Ten dollars and not a cent more. That would leave sixty to the good, enough to play on for a long time. So he bought ten dollars worth of chips and was again forgetful of the Judge, of Howard, of Florence, of the world. After a few hands he picked up a straight, seven high. He raised the opener, who promptly raised him in return, giving him the other barrel, as the saying went. Bodney raised again. He was to get action on all the money in front of him. The dealer said "cards," and the opener, tapping the table with his cards, replied, "Help him."

"Don't you want any?" Bodney eagerly asked.

"Didn't hear me call for any, did you?"

"Well, I don't want any either," said Bodney, in faltering tones. A seven high straight looked weak against a pat hand.

"Turn 'em over, boys," said the man in the look-out chair.

Bodney tremulously spread his hand. "Only seven high."

"Just top you. Mine's eight high. You had me scared, and if you'd have more money and bet me after the draw I don't think I call."

That might have been true, but it offered no consolation to Bodney. "Just my luck," he said.

"When a man gets them sort of hands beaten he's got to lose his money," said the "look-out." "There's nothing to it." A man standing near was waiting for Bodney's seat. He shoved back and was about to get up, pursuant upon the resolution which he had formed when, it occurred to him, as it always does, that with ten more he could win back the ten just lost. It was simply an accident that the fellow held over him. He would try ten more. His luck was gone, but he expected every moment to see it return. He opened a pot on aces and tens. A fool stayed on deuces, caught his third, and slaughtered him. He bought ten more. His spirits were heavy and he sighed distressfully. It was not the loss of the money; it was the harassing sense of being beaten. He opened another pot on queens up. One of the regulars raised him. He began to reason. "He would raise it on two pairs smaller than queens up. I saw him raise just now on sevens up. I'll stand it." He put in his money and drew one card. The regular drew one. The prospect was not bright, still it was not so bad. He did not help. He bet a white chip; the regular raised him three dollars and he called. Then the regular had recourse to a joke, new to Bodney, but old to the game. "I have the waiter's delight," said he.

"The what?"

"The waiter's delight," and he spread a tray full.

At ten o'clock, Bodney's capital, including the reserve fund, amounted to twenty dollars. "You beat me every time," he said, to an offensive fellow who sat opposite. It was the stranger with whom he had laughed early in the game.

"That's what I'm here for."

"That's all right. I'll get you yet."

He won several pots, and then opened a double pot for five dollars. He had a king high flush, and he intended the heavy opening to operate as a reverse bluff, to argue a small hand. The offensive fellow stayed and drew one card. He made a small full and Bodney felt his heart stop beating. At eleven o'clock he had simply the five dollar reserve fund. And he saw it melt away--saw his last chip go in. He drew, having a show for the pot, and made jacks up. The opener had queens up. Heavy of heart, Bodney went down the stairs. He cursed himself for playing after dinner. "If I only had ten dollars I might win it all back," he mused. "They can't possibly beat me all the time. I played as good cards as anybody. I wonder where I can get ten dollars. Everybody that knows me has gone home by now. Let me see. I know a fellow over at that drug store. But I've forgotten his name. Wonder if he'd let me have ten. I'll try him." He went into the drug store, saw the man standing behind the counter, walked up, reached over and shook hands with him.

"How's everything?" Bodney asked.

"Oh, pretty fair. How is it with you?"

"All right. Say, old man, a college chum of mine, devilish good fellow, came in just now on a train and happened to catch me at the office--"

"Yes?" said the druggist, looking at him.

"Yes, and the fact is, he got here broke and has called on me to help him out. He's a devilish good fellow, and I don't exactly know what to do. Every one I know has gone home, and--could you let me have ten till tomorrow? You can count on it then."

"Oh, I guess so, but I'm rather short."

"I'll give it to you tomorrow without fail."

He went out with a ten dollar note crumpled in his hand. A man may fail to get rent money, clothes money, bread money; he may meet with obstacles that he cannot overcome; his self-respect withholds him from asking favors of certain men. But the fool in hot quest of poker money knows no self-respect, recognizes no embarrassments that might stand in modesty's way. Bodney bounded up the stairs, afraid that the game might have broken up. Panting and tremulous, he pressed the electric button. A negro porter pulled aside a blue curtain, peeped through the glass and opened the door. The game had not broken up. Every seat was taken, the regulars, with chips stacked high before them, the "suckers" squirming with "short money." How dull and spiritless everything had looked when Bodney went out, and now how bright it all was, the carpet, the window curtains, the pictures on the walls. The room was large, affording ample space for a meditative walk up and down, and as he was too nervous to sit still, he walked.

"Think there'll be a seat pretty soon?" he asked of the man at the desk.