“I’m bothered about that young fellow,” said Mellish early one morning, to the professional gambler, Pony Rowell.
“Why?”
“He comes here night after night, and he loses more than he can afford, I imagine. He has no income, so far as I can find out, except what he gets as salary, and it takes a mighty sight bigger salary than his to stand the strain he’s putting on it.”
“What is his business?”
“He is cashier in the Ninth National Bank. I don’t know how much he gets, but it can’t be enough to permit this sort of thing to go on.”
Pony Rowell shrugged his shoulders.
“I don’t think I would let it trouble me, if I were you, Mellish.”
“Nevertheless it does. I have advised him to quit, but it is no use. If I tell the doorkeeper not to let him in here, he will merely go somewhere else where they are not so particular.”
“I must confess I don’t quite understand you, Mellish, long as I have known you. In your place, now, I would either give up keeping a gambling saloon or I would give up the moral reformation line of business. I wouldn’t try to ride two horses of such different tempers at the same time.”
“I’ve never tried to reform you, Pony,” said Mellish, with reproach in his voice.
“No; I will give you credit for that much sense.”
“It’s all right with old stagers like you and me, Pony, but with a boy just beginning life, it is different. Now it struck me that you might be able to help me in this.”
“Yes, I thought that was what you were leading up to,” said Rowell, thrusting his hands deep in his trousers’ pockets. “I’m no missionary, remember. What did you want me to do?”
“I wanted you to give him a sharp lesson. Couldn’t you mark a pack of cards and get him to play high? Then, when you have taken all his ready money and landed him in debt to you so that he can’t move, give him back his cash if he promises not to gamble again.”
Rowell looked across at the subject of their conversation. “I don’t think I would flatter him so much as to even stock the cards on him. I’ll clean him out if you like. But it won’t do any good, Mellish. Look at his eyes. The insanity of gambling is in them. I used to think if I had $100,000, I would quit. I’m old enough now to know that I wouldn’t. I’d gamble if I had a million.”
“I stopped after I was your age.”
“Oh, yes, Mellish, you are the virtuous exception that proves the rule. You quit gambling the way the old woman kept tavern,” and Rowell cast a glance over the busy room.
Mellish smiled somewhat grimly, then he sighed. “I wish I was out of it,” he said. “But, anyhow, you think over what I’ve been talking about, and if you can see your way to giving him a sharp lesson I wish you would.”
“All right I will, but merely to ease your tender conscience, Mellish. It’s no use, I tell you. When the snake has bitten, the victim is doomed. Gambling isn’t a simple thing like the opium habit.”
Reggie Forme, the bank cashier, rose at last from the roulette table. He was flushed with success, for there was a considerable addition to the sum he had in his pockets when he sat down. He flattered himself that the result was due to the system he had elaborately studied out.
Nothing lures a man to destruction quicker than a system that can be mathematically demonstrated. It gives an air of business to gambling which is soothing to the conscience of a person brought up on statistics. The system generally works beautifully at first; then a cog slips and you are mangled in the machinery before you know where you are. As young Forme left the table he felt a hand on his shoulder, and looking around, met the impassive gaze of Pony Rowell.
“You’re young at the business, I see,” remarked the professional quietly.
“Why do you think that?” asked the youngster, coloring, for one likes to be taken for a veteran, especially when one is an amateur.
“Because you fool away your time at roulette. That is a game for boys and women. Have you nerve enough to play a real game?”
“What do you call a real game?”
“A game with cards in a private room for something bigger than half- dollar points.”
“How big?”
“Depends on what capital you have. How much capital can you command?”
The cashier hesitated for a moment and his eyes fell from the steady light of Rowell’s, which seemed to have an uncomfortable habit of looking into one’s inmost soul.
“I can bring $1,000 here on Saturday night.”
“All right. That will do as a starter. Is it an appointment then?”
“Yes, if you like. What time?”
“I generally get here pretty late, but I can make an exception in your case. What do you say to 10 o’clock?”
“That will suit me.”
“Very well, then. Don’t fool away any of your money or nerve until I come. You will need all you have of both.”
The professional gambler and the amateur began their series of games a few minutes after ten in a little private room. The young man became more and more excited as the play went on. As for Pony, he was cool under any circumstances. Before an hour had passed the $1,000 was transferred from the possession of Forme into the pockets of the professional, and by midnight the younger man was another $1,000 in Rowell’s debt.
“It isn’t my practice,” said Rowell slowly, “to play with a man unless he has the money in sight. I’ve made an exception in your case, as luck was against you, but I think this has gone far enough. You may bring me the $1,000 you owe any day next week. No particular hurry, you know.”
The young fellow appeared to be dazed. He drew his hand across his brow and then said mechanically, as if he had just heard his opponent’s remark:
“No hurry? All right. Next week. Certainly. I guess I’ll go home now.”
Forme went out, leaving Rowell idly shuffling the cards at the small table. The moment the young man had disappeared all Rowell’s indolence vanished. He sprang up and put on his overcoat, then slipped out by the rear exit into the alley. He had made up his mind what Forme would do. Mentally he tracked him from the gambling rooms to the river and he even went so far as to believe he would take certain streets on his way thither. A gambler is nothing if not superstitious and so Rowell was not in the least surprised when he saw the young man emerge from the dark stairway, hesitate for a moment between the two directions open to him, and finally choose the one that the gambler expected him to take. The cold streets were deserted and so Rowell had more difficulty in following his late victim unperceived than he would have had earlier in the evening. Several times the older man thought the pursued had become aware of the pursuit, for Forme stopped and looked around him; once coming back and taking another street as if trying to double on the man who was following him.
Rowell began to realize the difficulty of the task he had set for himself, and as he had never had any faith in it anyhow, he began to feel uncomfortable and to curse the tender heart of Mellish. If the youngster got the idea into his head that he was followed he might succeed in giving his pursuer the slip, and then Rowell would find himself with the fool’s death on his conscience, and what was to him infinitely worse, with a thousand dollars in his pocket that had been unfairly won. This thought made him curse Mellish afresh. It had been entirely against his own will that he had played with marked cards, but Mellish had insisted that they should take no chances, and the veteran knew too well the uncertainties of playing a fair game where a great object lesson was to be taught. It would make them look like two fools, Mellish had said, if Forme won the money. In answer to this Rowell had remarked that they were two fools anyhow, but he had finally succumbed to Mellish as the whole scheme was Mellish’s. As Rowell thought bitterly of these things his attention was diverted from the very matter he had in hand. Few men can pursue a course of thought and a fellow-creature at the same time. He suddenly realized that young Forme had escaped him. Rowell stood alone in the dimly-lighted silent street and poured unuttered maledictions on his own stupidity. Suddenly a voice rang out from a dark doorway.
“What the devil are you following me for?”
“Oh, you’re there, are you?” said Pony calmly.
“I’m here. Now what do you want of me? Aren’t you satisfied with what you have done to-night?”
“Naturally not, or I wouldn’t be fool-chasing at such an hour as this.”
“Then you admit you have been following me?”
“I never denied it.”
“What do you want of me? Do I belong to myself or do you think I belong to you, because I owe you some money?”
“I do not know, I am sure, to whom you belong,” said Rowell with his slow drawl. “I suspect, however, that the city police, who seem to be scarce at this hour, have the first claim upon you. What do I want of you? I want to ask you a question. Where did you get the money you played with to-night?”
“It’s none of your business.”
“I presume not. But as there are no witnesses to this interesting conversation I will venture an opinion that you robbed the bank.”
The young man took a step forward, but Pony stood his ground, using the interval to light another cigarette.
“I will also venture an opinion, Mr. Rowell, and say that the money came as honestly into my pocket as it did into yours.”
“That wouldn’t be saying much for it. I have the advantage of you, however, because the nine points are in my favor. I have possession.”
“What are you following me for? To give me up?”
“You admit the robbery, then.”
“I admit nothing.”
“It won’t be used against you. As I told you, there are no witnesses. It will pay you to be frank. Where did you get the money?”
“Where many another man gets it. Out of the bank.”
“I thought so. Now, Forme, you are not such a fool as you look—or act. You know where all that sort of thing leads to. You haven’t any chance. All the rules of the game are against you. You have no more show than you had against me to-night. Why not chuck it, before it is too late?”
“It is easy for you to talk like that when you have my money in your pocket.”
“But that simply is another rule of the game. The money of a thief is bound to go into someone else’s pocket. Whoever enjoys the cash ultimately, he never does. Now if you had the money in your pocket what would you do?”
“I would go back to Mellish’s and have another try.”
“I believe you,” said Rowell with, for the first time, some cordiality in his voice. He recognized a kindred spirit in this young man. “Nevertheless it would be a foolish thing to do. You have two chances before you. You can become a sport as I am and spend your life in gambling rooms. Or you can become what is called a respectable business man. But you can’t be both. In a very short time you will not have the choice. You will be found out and then you can only be what I am— probably not as successful as I have been. If you add bank robbery to your other accomplishments then you will go to prison or, what is perhaps worse, to Canada. Which career are you going to choose?”
“Come down to plain facts. What do you mean by all this talk? If I say I’ll quit gambling do you mean that you will return to me the thousand dollars and call the other thousand square?”
“If you give me your word of honor that you will quit.”
“And if I don’t, what then?”
“Then on Monday I will hand over this money to the bank and advise them to look into your accounts.”
“And suppose my accounts prove to be all right, what then?”
Rowell shrugged his shoulders. “In that remote possibility I will give the thousand dollars to you and play you another game for it.”
“I see. Which means that you cheated to-night.”
“If you like to put it that way.”
“And what if I denounced you as a self-confessed cheat?”
“It wouldn’t matter to me. I wouldn’t take the trouble to deny it. Nobody would believe you.”
“You’re a cool hand, Pony, I admire your cheek. Still, you’ve got some silly elements in you.”
“Oh, you mean my trying to reform you? Don’t make any mistake about that. It is Mellish’s idea, not mine. I don’t believe in you for a moment.”
The young man laughed. He reflected for a few seconds, then said: “I’ll take your offer. You give me back the money and I will promise never to gamble again in any shape or form.”
“You will return the cash to the bank, if you took it from there?”
“Certainly. I will put it back the first thing on Monday morning.”
“Then here is your pile,” said Rowell, handing him the roll of bills.
Forme took it eagerly and, standing where the light struck down upon him, counted the bills, while Rowell looked on silently with a cynical smile on his lips.
“Thank you,” said the young man, “you’re a good fellow, Rowell.”
“I’m obliged for your good opinion. I hope you found the money correct?”
“Quite right,” said Forme, flushing a little. “I hope you did not mind my counting it. Merely a business habit, you know.”
“Well, stick to business habits, Mr. Forme. Good night.”
Rowell walked briskly back to Mellish’s. Forme walked toward the railway station and found that there was a train for Chicago at 4 in the morning. He had one clear day and part of another before he was missed, and as it turned out all trace of him was lost in the big city. The bank found about $6,000 missing. Two years after, news came that Forme had been shot dead in a gambling hall in Southern Texas.
“We are two first-class fools,” said Rowell to Mellish, “and I for one don’t feel proud of the episode, so we’ll say nothing more about it. The gambling mania was in his blood. Gambling is not a vice; it is a disease, latent in all of us.”
While the Northern Bruiser sat in the chair in his corner and was being fanned he resolved to finish the fight at the next round. The superior skill of his opponent was telling upon him, and although the Bruiser was a young man of immense strength, yet, up to that time, the alertness and dexterity of the Yorkshire Chicken had baffled him, and prevented him from landing one of his tremendous shoulder thrusts. But even though skill had checkmated strength up to this point, the Chicken had not entirely succeeded in defending himself, and was in a condition described by the yelling crowd as “groggy.”
When time was called the Bruiser was speedily on his feet. His face did not present the repulsive appearance so visible on the countenance of his opponent, but the Bruiser had experience enough to know that the body blows received in this fight had had their effect on his wind and staying powers; and that although the Chicken presented an appalling appearance with his swollen lips and cheeks, and his eyes nearly closed, yet he was in better trim for continuing the battle than the Bruiser.
The Chicken came up to the mark less promptly than his big antagonist, but whether it was from weakness or lack of sight, he seemed uncertain in his movements, and the hearts of his backers sank as they saw him stagger rather than walk to his place.
Before the Chicken, as it were, fully waked up to the situation, the Bruiser lunged forward and planted a blow on his temple that would have broken the guard of a man who was in better condition than the Chicken. The Yorkshireman fell like a log, and lay where he fell. Then the Bruiser got a lesson which terrified him. A sickly ashen hue came over the purple face of the man on the ground. The Bruiser had expected some defence, and the terrible blow had been even more powerful than he intended. A shivering whisper went round the crowd, “He is killed,” and instantly the silenced mob quietly scattered. It was every man for himself before the authorities took a hand in the game.
The Bruiser stood there swaying from side to side, his gaze fixed upon the prostrate man. He saw himself indicted and hanged for murder, and he swore that if the Chicken recovered he would never again enter the ring. This was a phase of prize-fighting that he had never before had experience of. On different occasions he had, it is true, knocked out his various opponents, and once or twice he had been knocked out himself; but the Chicken had fought so pluckily up to the last round that the Bruiser had put forth more of his tremendous strength than he had bargained for, and now the man’s life hung on a thread.
The unconscious pugilist was carried to an adjoining room. Two physicians were in attendance upon him, and at first the reports were most gloomy, but towards daylight the Bruiser learned with relief that the chances were in favor of his opponent.
The Bruiser had been urged to fly, but he was a man of strong common sense, and he thoroughly understood the futility of flight. His face and his form were too well known all around the country. It would have been impossible for him to escape, even if he had tried to do so.
When the Yorkshire Chicken recovered, the Bruiser’s friends laughed at his resolve to quit the ring, but they could not shake it. The money he had won in his last fight, together with what he had accumulated before—for he was a frugal man—was enough to keep him for the rest of his days, and he resolved to return to the Border town where he was born, and where doubtless his fame had preceded him.
He buckled his guineas in a belt around him, and with a stout stick in his hand he left London for the North. He was a strong and healthy young man, and had not given way to dissipation, as so many prizefighters had done before, and will again. He had a horror of a cramped and confined, seat in a stage coach. He loved the free air of the heights and the quiet stillness of the valleys.
It was in the days of highwaymen, and travelling by coach was not considered any too safe. The Bruiser was afraid of no man that lived, if he met him in the open with a stick in his hand, or with nature’s weapons, but he feared the muzzle of a pistol held at his head in the dark by a man with a mask over his face. So he buckled his belt around him with all his worldly gear in gold, took his own almost forgotten name, Abel Trenchon, set his back to the sun and his face to the north wind, and journeyed on foot along the king’s highway. He stopped at night in the wayside inns, taking up his quarters before the sun had set, and leaving them when it was broad daylight in the morning. He disputed his reckonings like a man who must needs count the pennies, and no one suspected the sturdy wayfarer of carrying a fortune around his body.
As his face turned toward the North his thought went to the Border town where he had spent his childhood. His father and mother were dead, and he doubted now if anyone there remembered him, or would have a welcome for him. Nevertheless no other spot on earth was so dear to him, and it had always been his intention, when he settled down and took a wife, to retire to the quiet little town.
The weather, at least, gave him a surly welcome. On the last day’s tramp the wind howled and the rain beat in gusts against him, but he was a man who cared little for the tempest, and he bent his body to the blast, trudging sturdily on. It was evening when he began to recognize familiar objects by the wayside, and he was surprised to see how little change there had been in all the years he was away. He stopped at an inn for supper, and, having refreshed himself, resolved to break the rule he had made for himself throughout the journey. He would push on through the night, and sleep in his native village.
The storm became more pitiless as he proceeded, and he found himself sympathizing with those poor creatures who were compelled to be out in it, but he never gave a thought to himself.
It was nearly midnight when he saw the square church tower standing blackly out against the dark sky; and when he began to descend the valley, on the other side of which the town stood, a thrill of fear came over him, as he remembered what he had so long forgotten—that the valley was haunted, and was a particularly dangerous place about the hour of midnight. To divert his thoughts he then began to wonder who the woman was he would marry. She was doubtless now sleeping calmly in the village on the hill, quite unconscious of the approach of her lover and her husband. He could not conceal from himself the fact that he would be reckoned a good match when his wealth was known, for, excepting the Squire, he would probably be the richest man in the place. However, he resolved to be silent about his riches, so that the girl he married would little dream of the good fortune that awaited her. He laughed aloud as he thought of the pleasure he would have in telling his wife of her luck, but the laugh died on his lips as he saw, or thought he saw, something moving stealthily along the hedge.
He was now in the depth of the valley in a most lonesome and eerie spot. The huge trees on each side formed an arch over the roadway and partially sheltered it from the rain.
He stood in his tracks, grasped his stick with firmer hold, and shouted valiantly, “Who goes there?”
There was no answer, but in the silence which followed he thought he heard a woman’s sob.
“Come out into the road,” he cried, “or I shall fire.”
His own fear of pistols was so great that he expected everyone else to be terrorized by the threat of using them; and yet he had never possessed nor carried a pistol in his life.
“Please—please don’t fire,” cried a trembling voice, from out the darkness. “I will do as you tell me.” And so saying the figure moved out upon the road.
Trenchon peered at her through the darkness, but whether she was old or young he could not tell. Her voice seemed to indicate that she was young.
“Why, lass,” said Trenchon, kindly, “what dost thou here at such an hour and in such a night?”
“Alas!” she cried, weeping; “my father turned me out, as he has often done before, but to-night is a bitter night, and I had nowhere to go, so I came here to be sheltered from the rain. He will be asleep ere long, and he sleeps soundly. I may perhaps steal in by a window, although sometimes he fastens them down.”
“God’s truth!” cried Trenchon, angrily. “Who is thy brute of a father?”
The girl hesitated, and then spoke as if to excuse him, but again Trenchon demanded his name.
“He is the blacksmith of the village, and Cameron is his name.”
“I remember him,” said Trenchon. “Is thy mother, then, dead?”
“Yes,” answered the girl, weeping afresh. “She has been dead these five years.”
“I knew her when I was a boy,” said Trenchon. “Thy father also, and many a grudge I owe him, although I had forgotten about them. Still, I doubt not but as a boy I was as much in fault as he, although he was harsh to all of us, and now it seems he is harsh to thee. My name is Trenchon. I doubt if any in the village now remember me, although, perhaps, they may have heard of me from London,” he said, with some pride, and a hope that the girl would confirm his thoughts. But she shook her head.
“I have never heard thy name,” she said.
Trenchon sighed. This, then, was fame!
“Ah, well!” he cried, “that matters not; they shall hear more of me later. I will go with thee to thy father’s house and demand for thee admittance and decent usage.”
But the girl shrank back. “Oh, no, no!” she cried; “that will never do. My father is a hard man to cross. There are none in the village who dare contend with him.”
“That is as it may be,” said Trenchon, with easy confidence. “I, for one, fear him not. Come, lass, with me, and see if I cannot, after all these years, pick out thy father’s dwelling. Come, I say, thou must not longer tarry here; the rain is coming on afresh, and these trees, thick as they are, form scant protection. It is outrageous that thou should wander in this storm, while thy brutal father lies in shelter. Nay, do not fear harm for either thee or me; and as for him, he shall not suffer if thou but wish it so.” And, drawing the girl’s hand through his arm, he took her reluctantly with him, and without direction from her soon stood before the blacksmith’s house.
“You see,” he said, triumphantly, “I knew the place, and yet I have not seen the town for years.”
Trenchon rapped soundly on the oaken door with his heavy stick, and the blows re-echoed through the silent house. The girl shrank timidly behind him, and would have fled, but that he held her firmly by the wrist.
“Nay, nay,” he said: “believe me there is naught to fear. I will see that thou art not ill-used.”
As he spoke the window above was thrown up, and a string of fearful oaths greeted the two, whereat the girl once more tried to release her imprisoned wrist, but Trenchon held it lightly, though with a grip like steel.
The stout old man thrust his head through the open window.
“God’s blight on thee!” he cried, “thou pair of fools who wish to wed so much that ye venture out in such a night as this. Well, have your way, and let me have my rest. In the name of the law of Scotland I pronounce ye man and wife. There, that will bind two fools together as strongly as if the Archbishop spoke the words. Place thou the money on the steps. I warrant none will venture to touch it when it belongs to me.” And with that he closed the window.
“Is he raving mad or drunk?” cried Trenchon.
The girl gave a wailing cry. “Alas! alas!” she said; “he is neither. He is so used to marrying folk who come from England across the Border that he thinks not it his daughter who came with thee, but two who wished to wed. They come at all hours of the night and day, and he has married us. I am thy wife.”
The astonished man dropped her wrist, and she put her hands before her eyes and wept.
“Married!” cried Trenchon. “We two married!”
He looked with interest at the girl, but in the darkness could see nothing of her. The unheeded rain pelted on them both.
“Hast thou”—he hesitated—“hast thou some other lover, since you weep?”
The girl shook her head. “No one,” she said, “comes near us. They fear my father.”
“Then, if this be true, why dost thou weep? I am not considered so bad a fellow.”
“I weep not for myself, but for thee, who through the kindness of thy heart hast been led into this trap. Believe me, it was not my intention.”
“Judging from thy voice, my girl, and if thou favorest thy mother, as I think, whom I remember well, this is a trap that I shall make little effort to get my foot out of. But thou art dripping, and I stand chattering here. Once more I will arouse my father-in-law.”
So saying, he stoutly rapped again with his stick upon the door.
Once more the window was pushed up, and again the angry head appeared.
“Get you gone!” cried the maddened blacksmith, but before he could say anything further Trenchon cried out:
“It is thy daughter here who waits. Open the door, thou limb of hell, or I will burst it in and cast thee out as thou hast done thy daughter.”
The blacksmith, who had never in his life been spoken to in tones or words like these, was so amazed that he could neither speak nor act, but one stout kick against the door so shook the fabric that he speedily saw another such would break into his domicile; so, leaving the window open that his curses might the better reach them, the blacksmith came down and threw the barrier from the door, flinging it open and standing on the threshold so as to bar all ingress.
“Out of the way,” cried Trenchon, roughly placing his hand on the other’s breast with apparent lightness, but with a push that sent him staggering into the room.
The young man pulled the girl in after him and closed the door.
“Thou knowest the way,” he whispered. “Strike thou a light.”
The trembling girl lit a candle, and as it shone upon her face Trenchon gave a deep sigh of happiness and relief. No girl in the village could be more fair.
The blacksmith stood, his fingers clenched with rage; but he looked with hesitation and respect upon the burly form of the prizefighter. Yet the old man did not flinch.
“Throw aside thy stick,” he cried, “or wait until I can get me another.”
Trenchon flung his stick into the corner.
“Oh! oh!” cried the girl, clasping her hands. “You must not fight.” But she appealed to her husband and not to her father, which caused a glow of satisfaction to rise from the heart of the young man.
“Get thee out of this house,” cried her father, fiercely, turning upon her.
“Talk not thus to my wife,” said Trenchon, advancing upon him.
“Thy wife?” cried the blacksmith, in amaze.
“My wife,” repeated the young man with emphasis. “They tell me, blacksmith, that thou art strong. That thou art brutal I know, but thy strength I doubt. Come to me and test it.”
The old man sprang upon him, and the Bruiser caught him by the elbows and held him helpless as a child. He pressed him up against the wall, pushed his wrists together, and clasped them both in his one gigantic hand. Then, placing the other on the blacksmith’s shoulder, he put his weight upon him, and the blacksmith, cursing but helpless, sank upon his knees.
“Now, thou hardened sinner,” cried the Bruiser, bending over him. “Beg from thy daughter on thy knees for a night’s shelter in this house. Beg, or I will thrust thy craven face against the floor.”
The girl clung to her newly-found husband, and entreated him not to hurt her father.
“I shall not hurt him if he do but speak. If he has naught but curses on his lips, why then those lips must kiss the flags that are beneath him. Speak out, blacksmith: what hast thou to say?”
“I beg for shelter,” said the conquered man.
Instantly the Bruiser released him.
“Get thee to bed,” he said, and the old man slunk away.
“Wife,” said Abel Trenchon, opening his arms, “I have come all the way from London for thee. I knew not then what drew me north, but now I know that One wiser than me led my steps hither. As far as erring man may promise I do promise thee that thou shalt ne’er regret being cast out this night into the storm.”
Some newspapers differ from others. One peculiarity about the Argus was the frequency with which it changed its men. Managing editors came who were going to revolutionize the world and incidentally the Argus, but they were in the habit of disappearing to give place to others who also disappeared. Newspaper men in that part of the country never considered themselves full-fledged unless they had had a turn at managing the Argus. If you asked who was at the head of the Argus the answer would very likely be: “Well, So-and-so was managing it this morning. I don’t know who is running it this afternoon.”
Perhaps the most weird period in the history of the Argus was when the owners imported a crank from Pittsburg and put him in as local editor, over the heads of the city staff. His name was McCrasky, christened Angus or Archie, I forget which, at this period of time. In fact, his Christian name was always a moot point; some of the reporters saying it was Angus and others Archie, no one having the courage to ask him. Anyhow, he signed himself A. McCrasky. He was a good man, which was rather an oddity on the staff, and puzzled the reporters not a little. Most of his predecessors had differed much from each other, but they were all alike in one thing, and that was profanity. They expressed disapproval in language that made the hardened printers’ towel in the composing room shrink.
McCrasky’s great point was that the local pages of the paper should have a strong moral influence on the community. He knocked the sporting editor speechless by telling him that they would have no more reports of prize-fights. Poor Murren went back to the local room, sat down at his table and buried his head in his hands. Every man on a local staff naturally thinks the paper is published mainly to give his department a show, and Murren considered a fight to a finish as being of more real importance to the world than a presidential election. The rest of the boys tried to cheer him up. “A fine state of things,” said Murren bitterly. “Think of the scrap next week between the California Duffer and Pigeon Billy and no report of it in the Argus! Imagine the walk- over for the other papers. What in thunder does he think people want to read?”
But there was another surprise in store for the boys. McCrasky assembled them all in his room and held forth to them. He suddenly sprung a question on the criminal reporter—so suddenly that Thompson, taken unawares, almost spoke the truth.
“Do you know of any gambling houses in this city?”
Thompson caught his breath and glanced quickly at Murren.
“No,” he said at last. “I don’t, but perhaps the religious editor does. Better ask him.”
The religious editor smiled and removed his corn-cob pipe.
“There aren’t any,” he said. “Didn’t you know it was against the law to keep a gambling house in this state? Yes, sir!” Then he put his corn- cob pipe back in its place.
McCrasky was pleased to see that his young men knew so little of the wickedness of a great city; nevertheless he was there to give them some information, so he said quietly:
“Certainly it is against the law; but many things that are against the law flourish in a city like this. Now I want you to find out before the week is past how many gambling houses there are and where they are located. When you are sure of your facts we will organize a raid and the news will very likely be exclusive, for it will be late at night and the other papers may not hear of it.”
“Suppose,” said the religious editor, with a twinkle in his eye, as he again removed his corn-cob, “that—assuming such places to exist—you found some representatives of the other papers there? They are a bad lot, the fellows on the other papers.”
“If they are there,” said the local editor, “they will go to prison.”
“They won’t mind that, if they can write something about it,” said Murren gloomily. In his opinion the Argus was going to the dogs.
“Now, Thompson,” said McCrasky, “you as criminal reporter must know a lot of men who can give you particulars for a first-rate article on the evils of gambling. Get it ready for Saturday’s paper—a column and a half, with scare heads. We must work up public opinion.”
When the boys got back into the local room again, Murren sat with his head in his hands, while Thompson leaned back in his chair and laughed.
“Work up public opinion,” he said. “Mac had better work up his own knowledge of the city streets, and not put Bolder avenue in the East End, as he did this morning.”
The religious editor was helping himself to tobacco from Murren’s drawer. “Are you going to put Mellish on his guard?” he asked Thompson.
“I don’t just know what I’m going to do,” said Thompson; “are you?”
“I’ll think about it,” replied the R. E. “Beastly poor tobacco, this of yours, Murren. Why don’t you buy cut plug?”
“You’re not compelled to smoke it,” said the sporting editor, without raising his head.
“I am when mine is out, and the other fellows keep their drawers locked.”
Thompson dropped in on Mellish, the keeper of the swell gambling rooms, to consult with him on the article for Saturday’s paper. Mellish took a great interest in it, and thought it would do good. He willingly gave Thompson several instances where the vice had led to ruin of promising young men.
“All men gamble in some way or another,” said Mellish meditatively. “Some take it one way and some another. It is inherent in human nature, like original sin. The beginning of every business is a gamble. If I had $30,000 I would rather run my chance of doubling it at these tables here than I would, for instance, by starting a new newspaper or putting it on wheat or in railway stocks. Take a land boom, for instance, such as there was in California or at Winnipeg—the difference between putting your money in a thing like that or going in for legitimate gambling is that, in the one case, you are sure to lose your cash, while in the other you have a chance of winning some. I hold that all kinds of gambling are bad, unless a man can easily afford to lose what he stakes. The trouble is that gambling affects some people like liquor. I knew a man once who——” but you can read the whole article if you turn up the back numbers of the Argus.
Thompson told Mellish about McCrasky. Mellish was much interested, and said he would like to meet the local editor. He thought the papers should take more interest in the suppression of gambling dens than they did, and for his part he said he would like to see them all stopped, his own included. “Of course,” he added, “I could shut up my shop, but it would simply mean that someone else would open another, and I don’t think any man ever ran such a place fairer than I do.”
McCrasky called on the chief of police, and introduced himself as the local editor of the Argus.
“Oh,” said the chief, “has Gorman gone, then?”
“I don’t know about Gorman,” said McCrasky; “the man I succeeded was Finnigan. I believe he is in Cincinnati now.”
When the chief learned the purport of the local editor’s visit he became very official and somewhat taciturn. He presumed that there were gambling houses in the city. If there were, they were very quiet and no complaints ever reached his ears. There were many things, he said, that it was impossible to suppress, and the result of attempted suppression was to drive the evil deeper down. He seemed to be in favor rather of regulating, than of attempting the impossible; still, if McCrasky brought him undoubted evidence that a gambling house was in operation, he would consider it his duty to make a raid on it. He advised McCrasky to go very cautiously about it, as the gamblers had doubtless many friends who would give a tip and so frustrate a raid, perhaps letting somebody in for damages. McCrasky said he would be careful.
Chance played into the hands of McCrasky and “blew in” on him a man who little recked what he was doing when he entered the local editor’s room. Gus Hammerly, sport and man-about-town, dropped into the Argus office late one night to bring news of an “event” to the sporting editor. He knew his way about in the office, and, finding Murren was not in, he left the item on his table. Then he wandered into the local editor’s room. The newspaper boys all liked Hammerly, and many a good item they got from him. They never gave him away, and he saw that they never got left, as the vernacular is.
“Good-evening. You’re the new local editor, I take it. I’ve just left a little item for Murren, I suppose he’s not in from the wrestle yet. My name’s Hammerly. All the boys know me and I’ve known in my time fourteen of your predecessors, so I may as well know you. You’re from Pittsburg, I hear.”
“Yes. Sit down, Mr. Hammerly. Do you know Pittsburg at all?”
“Oh, yes. Borden, who keeps the gambling den on X street, is an old friend of mine. Do you happen to know how old Borden’s getting along?”
“Yes, his place was raided and closed up by the police.”
“That’s just the old man’s luck. Same thing in Kansas City.”
“By the way, Mr. Hammerly, do you know of any gambling houses in this city?”
“Why, bless you, haven’t the boys taken you round yet? Well, now, that’s inhospitable. Mellish’s is the best place in town. I’m going up there now. If you come along with me I’ll give you the knock-down at the door and you’ll have no trouble after that.”
“I’ll go with you,” said McCrasky, reaching for his hat, and so the innocent Hammerly led the lamb into the lion’s den.
McCrasky, unaccustomed to the sight, was somewhat bewildered with the rapidity of the play. There was a sort of semicircular table, around the outside rim of which were sitting as many men as could be comfortably placed there. A man at the inside of the table handled the cards. He flicked out one to each player, face downward, with an expertness and speed that dazzled McCrasky. Next he dealt out one to each player face upward and people put sums of money on the table beside their cards, after looking at them. There was another deal and so on, but the stranger found it impossible to understand or follow the game. He saw money being raked in and paid out rapidly and over the whole affair was a solemn decorum that he had not been prepared for. He had expected fierce oaths and the drawing of revolvers.
“Here, Mellish,” said the innocent Hammerly, “let me introduce you to the new local editor of the Argus. I didn’t catch your name,” he said in a whisper.
“My name’s McCrasky.”
“Mr. McCrasky; Mr. Mellish. Mellish is proprietor here and you’ll find him a first-rate fellow.”
“I am pleased to meet you,” said Mellish quietly; “any friend of Hammerly’s is welcome. Make yourself at home.”
Edging away from the two, Mellish said in a quick whisper to Sotty, the bartender: “Go and tell the doorkeeper to warn Thompson, or any of the rest of the Argus boys, that their boss is in here.”
At 12 o’clock that night the local editor sat in his room. “Is that you, Thompson?” he shouted, as he heard a step.
“Yes, sir;” answered Thompson, coming into the presence.
“Shut the door, Thompson. Now I have a big thing on for to-night, but it must be done quietly. I’ve unearthed a gambling den in full blast. It will be raided to-night at 2 o’clock. I want you to be on the ground with Murren; will you need anybody else?”
“Depends on how much you wish to make of it.”
“I want to make it the feature of to-morrow’s paper. I think we three can manage, but bring some of the rest if you like. The place is run by a man named Mellish. Now, if you boys kept your eyes open you would know more of what is going on in your own city than you do.”
“We haven’t all had the advantage of metropolitan training,” said Thompson humbly.
“I will go there with the police. You and Murren had better be on the ground, but don’t go too soon, and don’t make yourselves conspicuous or they might take alarm. Here is the address. You had better take it down.”
“Oh, I’ll find the place all——” Then Thompson thought a moment and pulled himself together. “Thanks,” he said, carefully noting down the street and number.
The detachment of police drew up in front of the place a few minutes before 2 o’clock. The streets were deserted, and so silent were the blue coats that the footsteps of a belated wayfarer sounded sharply in the night air from the stone pavement of a distant avenue.
“Are you sure,” said McCrasky to the man in charge of the police, “that there is not a private entrance somewhere?”
“Certainly there is,” was the impatient reply: “Sergeant McCollum and four men are stationed in the alley behind. We know our business, sir.”
McCrasky thought this was a snub, and he was right. He looked around in the darkness for his reporters. He found them standing together in a doorway on the opposite side of the street.
“Been here long?” he whispered.
Murren was gloomy and did not answer. The religious editor removed his corn-cob and said briefly; “About ten minutes, sir.” Thompson was gazing with interest at the dark building across the way.
“You’ve seen nobody come out?”
“Nobody. On the contrary, about half a dozen have gone up that stairway.”
“Is that the place, sir?” asked Thompson with the lamb-like innocence of the criminal reporter.
“Yes, upstairs there.”
“What did I tell you?” said the religious editor. “Thompson insisted it was next door.”
“Come along,” said McCrasky, “the police are moving at last.”
A big bell in the neighborhood solemnly struck two slow strokes, and all over the city the hour sounded in various degrees of tone and speed. A whistle rang out and was distantly answered. The police moved quickly and quietly up the stairway.
“Have you tickets, gentlemen,” asked the man at the door politely; “this is a private assembly.”
“The police,” said the sergeant shortly, “stand aside.”
If the police were astonished at the sight which met their gaze, their faces did not show it. But McCrasky had not such control over his features and he looked dumbfounded. The room was the same, undoubtedly, but there was not the vestige of a card to be seen. There were no tables, and even the bar had disappeared. The chairs were nicely arranged and most of them were occupied. At the further end of the room Pony Rowell stood on a platform or on a box or some elevation, and his pale, earnest face was lighted up with the enthusiasm of the public speaker. He was saying: “On the purity of the ballot, gentlemen, depends the very life of the republic. That every man should be permitted, without interference or intimidation, to cast his vote, and that every vote so cast should be honestly counted is, I take it, the desire of all who now listen to my words.” (Great applause, during which Pony took a sip from a glass that may have contained water.)
The police had come in so quietly that no one, apparently, had noticed their entrance, except that good man Mellish, who hurried forward to welcome the intruders.
“Will you take a seat?” he asked. “We are having a little political talk from Mr. Rowell, sergeant.”
“Rather an unusual hour, Mr. Mellish,” said the sergeant grimly.
“It is a little late,” admitted Mellish, as if the idea had not occurred to him before.
The police who had come in by the back entrance appeared at the other end of the room and it was evident that Rowell’s oration had come to an untimely end. Pony looked grieved and hurt, but said nothing.
“We will have to search the premises, Mr. Mellish,” said the sergeant.
Mellish gave them every assistance, but nothing was found.
As the four men walked back together to the Argus office, McCrasky was very indignant.
“We will expose the police to-morrow,” he said. “They evidently gave Mellish the tip.”
“I don’t think so,” said Thompson. “We will say nothing about it.”
“You forget yourself, Mr. Thompson. It rests with me to say what shall go on the local page. Not with you.”
“I don’t forget myself,” answered Thompson sadly; “I’ve just remembered myself. The Directors of the Argus appointed me local editor yesterday. Didn’t they tell you about it? That’s just like them. They forgot to mention the fact to Corbin that he had been superseded and the manager went off fishing after appointing Jonsey local editor, so that for a week we had two local editors, each one countermanding the orders of the other. It was an awful week. You remember it, Murren?” Murren’s groan seemed to indicate that his recollection of the exciting time was not a pleasant memory.
“In case of doubt,” murmured the religious editor, this time without removing his corn-cob, “obey the orders of the new man where the Argus is concerned. Thompson, old man, I’m wid you. When did the blow fall?”
“Yesterday afternoon,” said Thompson, almost with a sob; “I’ll be dismissed within a month, so I am rather sorry. I liked working on the Argus—as a reporter. I never looked for such ill luck as promotion. But we all have our troubles, haven’t we, Mac?”
McCrasky did not answer. He is now connected with some paper in Texas.