Chapter 9

"Wal," said Mr. Barlow, musingly, "that 's one thing I kin see stickin' out; you ain't no kind o' hand to run a place like this--ye 're too tarnal shif'less. Somebody 's got to look after things. Now, my place down below 's all right for raisin' cotton and sich, but it 's onhealthy, mighty. The doctor says it 's livin' down thar gives my wife chills and ager. So, take it all 'round, and bein' 's ye 're fixed so nice up here, but lonesome-like by yerself, I guess me an' wife 'll close up the ole house an' move up here to live."

"Guess again."

"No; I 'low I guessed it right fust time," grinned the old man. "What 's the good in runnin' two houses when we kin all live together in one jist ez well? Wife kin have the parlor bedroom all t' herself, and you kin have the front or back room upstairs, either you like--I ain't pertic'lar on that pint--"

"Now, see here," interrupted Checkers, jumping up with an impatient gesture, "I 've listened to enough of this bloody nonsense. I 'll live here by myself and run this place to suit myself. Now, when you go out, close the gate--I 'm tired of talking, and I want to be left alone."

But the old man never budged; and again the "devil's-horse" braved an unrighteous fate with a stoicism worthy of a better cause.

"Young feller," said Mr. Barlow, after several moments' cogitation, "you ain't never treated me with the perliteness and respect as is due from a boy yer age t' his elders and betters. But I never harbored no grudge, 'cause I knowed it was only a matter o' time when chickens like them 'ud come home to roost."

Checkers had intended to move off and leave him sitting there alone; but he stopped long enough to light a cigarette (a thing which the old man abominated) and listen to this last remark.

"_Now it's roostin' time_," continued Mr. Barlow with emphasis, "and onless ye come down off'n th' high horse ye 're ridin', ye 're goin' ter hear suthin' drap that 'll kinder put a crimp in that pride o' yourn."

This was a new tone for him to take, and Checkers turned and looked at him surprisedly.

"The fact is," he went on, "you ain't got no head for bizness, and it 's providential things hez come round so 's I kin run this place and make what they is to be made out'n it." He looked up as though he expected to be interrogated.

"What's your lay?" asked Checkers.

"Wal, the situation, ez near ez I kin figger it out, accordin' to law, is this: _I owns this ranch_."

Checkers stood silent for a moment, and then laughed. "You owns it?" he mimicked; "nit."

"This real estate," began Mr. Barlow dryly, as though repeating a well-conned lesson, "with the house upon it, was owned in fee by Persis Barlow Campbell at the time o' her death. Said Persis Campbell died intestate and without issue, and accordin' to th' laws o' the State of Arkansas all real and personal property standin' in her name, or belongin' to her at th' time o' her death, reverts to her next o' kin, who 's her father. Now, what d 'ye say?"

"It's a lie," exclaimed Checkers, trembling with anger at the thought of so outrageous a thing.

"It 's th' gospel truth," said Mr. Barlow, trying in vain to hide the look of satisfaction which sat upon his face. His words and the tone of his voice carried conviction. This was the final blow; the crowning evil. Checkers staggered under it. The house and the trees floated before his eyes like a stifling vapor, but with a mighty effort he gathered himself together.

"If this is so," he began, his voice hoarse with passion, "it's the most ungodly outrage that ever--I 'm going down to ask Judge Martin if that's the law. But let me tell you," he added, "law or no law, you shall never live in this house while I 'm alive and able to shoot a gun. Do you understand?"

The old man was silent.

"Do you understand?" repeated Checkers, more vehemently.

"Pp-tttt," said the old man, and this time the "devil's-horse" fell a victim to its too great temerity.

X

Sadly enough, it was all too true. Judge Martin, while forced to admit the fact, cursed Mr. Barlow in no measured terms. "The damned old pachyderm!" he exclaimed; "suppose it is the letter of the law, by every sense of equity, justice, and decency, the place belongs to you, and if he tries to take it, damme, I 'll head a movement to tar and feather him."

Checkers went back in utter dejection.

Mandy had a tempting dinner ready, but he barely touched it. All the afternoon he sat under the shade of the trees, thinking deeply. Mr. Barlow he knew too well to believe that he could be dissuaded from any purpose once formed, if he had the law on his side, and there was any question of money in it. He was already miserable; but to be forced to live with the old man, even with the mitigating circumstances of his wife--to have him around all the time--would be wholly unbearable.

Then, too, stronger than this was the feeling that such an invasion of the house would be a profanation. Every ornament, every chair, was standing just as Pert had left it. No vandal hand should move or break them, devoting them to secular use--not if he had power to help it; and he believed he had.

He jumped up and hurried into the house. For two hours he worked in eager haste, opening and closing drawers, and sorting articles into different piles on the floor.

As night approached he entered the Kendall store, and related the whole affair in a quiet tone to Mr. Bradley. That good old soul could hardly contain himself for righteous indignation; but Checkers cut him short by telling him he was in a hurry.

"There 's two things I want to ask of you, Mr. Bradley," said Checkers. "I want that package of bonds you have for me in the safe, and I want you to cash a check for two hundred dollars--it's just the balance I have in the bank here. I 'm going away to-night--for a while, at least."

Mr. Bradley gave him the package, and luckily had enough money on hand to cash his check. "Thank you," said Checkers, "for this and for all your other kindness to me. Good-bye."

"Good-bye, my son, and God bless you!" and Mr. Bradley wrung Checkers' hand, while the tears welled up in his kind old eyes and trickled down his wrinkled cheeks.

Outside, Checkers met Tobe, lumbering along with a pair of mules and a lumber wagon.

"Tobe, you 're the very man I want!" he exclaimed; "come, turn round, and drive up to my place." Tobe proceeded to obey without demur or questioning.

Since last we saw him, Tobe had tried his luck with a fifth "woman," and lived in a two-room shanty on a clearing in the mountains.

Checkers walked ahead until they reached the house. "Drive up as near to the door as you can, Tobe," he said. "I 'll be out in a minute."

Mandy was preparing his supper in the kitchen. "Mandy," said Checkers, "I 'm afraid I 've got bad news for you. I 'm going away to-night, and I may not come back again; so, Mandy, I 'm afraid I won't need you any more."

Mandy's honest black face took on a comically serious look. Her lip hung pendulously, as she slowly shook her gaudily turbaned head. "You aint goin' sho' 'nough, is you, Marse Checkahs?" she asked, for lack of something better to say.

"Yes, Mandy, I'm going to-night," he said, "and before I go I want to lock up this house. So after you 've washed the dishes and put things to rights, you 'd better arrange to go home. And, Mandy, there 's a number of things here I 'll never need, that would make your cabin very comfortable. Tobe is here with his wagon, and I 'll get him to give you a lift with them to-night."

"Thank you, Marse Checkahs, thank you, sah," was all the poor old soul could say.

Two hours later Tobe drove out of the gate with a wagonful of furniture, carpets, bedding, and kitchen utensils, en route for Mandy's cabin. Mandy sat beside him, rocking back and forth, and crooning to herself in a curious mixture of boundless grief and delirious joy.

Tobe returned and piled another wagon-load even higher. This was destined for the cabin in the mountains. Tobe's delight was indescribable, and his efforts to express his thanks were quite as futile as had been those of Mandy. Checkers had allowed the two to take every useful article they chose from all save the parlor and Pert's room. Those rooms remained inviolate.

"I will write to Judge Martin to-night, Tobe," said Checkers, "telling him what I have done for you and Mandy, in case any one should question how you came by all this plunder. This furniture belongs to me," he muttered to himself, "whatever the law may do with the house and ground, for I bought it and paid for it myself, and never gave it to anybody."

"Now, Tobe, one thing more, here 's my trunk; put it on your wagon and drop it off at the station on your way through town. That's it. Good-bye, old fellow; my regards to the madam--I hope she 'll be pleased with my wedding-gift."

Tobe buried Checker's hand in his great horny palm. "Mr. Checkers," he said, and his voice grew husky, "ye 're God's own kind; may He have ye in His keepin'!" and he climbed upon his wagon, and drove slowly out into the night.

Checkers was alone. He went slowly into the house. A clock upon the mantel was chiming ten. There was still two hours before train time. He sat down and wrote a long letter to Judge Martin, sealed and stamped it, and put it in his pocket. His hat and light overcoat lay upon a chair beside him. He arose and put them on. His satchel, cane, and umbrella he then carefully laid on the stoop outside, and stood a while listening in the darkness. Apparently satisfied, he returned, and, taking one last, lingering look around, put out the lights.

For perhaps ten minutes he was busy at something under the stairway. He then silently emerged and locked the door.

The people of Clarksville and that vicinity are given to retiring early. Had they been abroad, or even awake, as late as eleven o'clock that night, they might have seen a startling spectacle in the distance--that of a mass of ruthless, hungry flames devouring a little white dwelling; leaping up in their fierce ecstacy to the heavens, and painting the sky all about a lurid, smoky crimson.

Checkers sat perched upon the fence some distance off. One heel was caught upon the first rail below him. His elbow rested upon his knee, and his upturned palm supported his chin.

The poor little house writhed helpless in the withering grasp of the remorseless flames. "This, then, was the final ending," he thought--"ashes to ashes," literally. This was the awakening from his short dream of bliss. Here he had lived six happy months; then ill-fortune singled him out for a plaything. He laughed a bitter, mirthless laugh.

The night was perfectly still and the myriad sparks from the flames rose straight to heaven. "There 's one good thing about it all," he mused, "and that is that I kept neglecting to insure the house and furniture when I went to Little Rock. That being the case, it 's a wonder I did n't burn out before this. I guess it was coming. I probably got a lead of a couple of days on my luck, and beat it out a length or two."

He looked at his watch. He had still half an hour before train time. The fire was burning lower. Suddenly the whole standing structure fell in with a muffled crash. Again the flames rose high and fierce; but they rapidly died down, and soon there remained of the fair white cottage but a blackened, smouldering ruin.

Checkers climbed down and went over near by. Nothing of value was left. The very foundations were cracked and fallen in; but the sounds of voices on the road now warned him that he must be going.

He turned for an instant in the direction of the Barlow house, and bowed low. "Now, you thieving old highbinder," he said, "take the change;" and, diving into a grove of trees he took a roundabout way through the fields to avoid the gathering crows which, finally aroused, now flocked to the scene of the disaster. Breathless, he arrived on the nick of time. His trunk was thrown aboard the train; he entered the sleeper and was whisked away toward Little Rock.

He went out again and stood upon the platform until the last vestige of Clarksville was passed. He then found a seat in the smoking-room and smoked until almost morning.

* * * * *

"Chicago!" Checkers stood once more upon his native heath. He had come directly from Little Rock, had rented a modest room, and had taken up again the thread of a drifting, devil-may-care existence. Gradually, the constant, active, throbbing pain of his bereavement wore away, and in its stead there came a sullen, morbid sense of the uselessness of all things. He had neither friends nor acquaintances; even Murray Jameson was out of town. He haunted the Fair grounds in the daytime and the theatres at night.

"Excitement and Forgetfulness"--this might have been his watchword.

I feel that if I could have met him at this time instead of almost a year later as I did, I might have brought an active pressure to bear upon him, and saved to him the good that the refining influence of his wife and his Clarksville connections had done him. But, alas! in this busy world there is no such thing as standing still. We either advance or retrograde. The hill is steep to climb, but going down is easy.

Checkers went down; gradually, it is true, but still he went down.

By degrees he met his fellow-roomers in the house--good fellows, all of them, in their way, but worthless. Checkers craved companionship. Often he sat in a poker game all night with them, in some one of their rooms, or "did the Midway" with them, ever "mocking the spirit which could be moved to such a thing," but sometimes finding in it a temporary respite from the bitter, haunting memories of the past.

It would be difficult to follow, and uninteresting to read, the devious windings of Checkers' way during the next few months. Hardened, despondent, and utterly careless; without the restraining influence of worthy friends or home ties to soften and hold him; with money, but no occupation; time, but nothing to do with it--little wonder is it that, after the great White City finally closed its gates, shutting him off from his one simple pleasure, he gradually drifted back to the stirring scenes of his youth--the races and the betting-ring.

The history of every one of the hundreds of thousands of men who have "played the races" may be told in three short words: "They went broke"--sooner or later. Generally sooner than later; but "they went broke."

So it was with Checkers. Good information, careful betting--playing horses for place when he thought they could win; sometimes not risking a cent all day; watching the owners, standing in with the jockeys--all this put him nicely ahead for a while, and staved off the evil day for long. But the eternal law of average will not down, and the percentage in the betting-ring is absurdly against the bettor. A streak of hard luck; a slaughter of the favorites; a plunge; throwing good money after bad; doubling up once or twice; a final coup. Pouf! One afternoon Checkers found himself penniless.

That night he pawned his watch for all it would bring. This put him in funds again, but gave him pause. He decided to stop gambling and go to work. But the morning paper contained a tempting list of entries. It was Saturday, and a short day.

He went to the track as usual, and at the end of the third race was "broke." Then he met Murray Jameson. Both were surprised. Checkers told him his story, and borrowed ten dollars. Murray lost fifty more by playing Checkers' tips, against his own better judgment. Murray was "sore"--Checkers apologetic. This was his first experience as a tout. After that he picked up a precarious living, selling whatever articles of value he possessed, one after another, until he had left but the diamond star he had given Pert as a wedding gift, and a scanty wardrobe.

When necessity caused him to part with the star he forswore the races, and for two full weeks conscientiously sought for legitimate employment. But Chicago was filled with idle hands, which the closing of the Fair months before had left there stranded. Everything was overcrowded. Business was dead, and his search was unavailing. Then he took up "touting" as a profession. He rotated between the various "merry-go-rounds," which were open all seasons of the year. The tout's stock devices--the "bank-roll" game, the "phoney" ticket, the "jockey's cousin"--he worked with better success than most; but, as a rule, his method was simple. He sought the acquaintance of such as he thought might be "persuaded," and by showing confidence where they were doubtful, knowledge where their own was lacking, he usually managed to get some four or five men to make bets during the day. Those who won were grateful, and generally paid him well for his "information." The losers got an explanation of "how it was" and "a sure thing for the next."

One thing, however, must be said for Checkers. He never "touted" a horse unless he thought it had a best chance of winning. That is, if there were five horses in a race, and Checkers had five men "on his string," he never descended to the common practice of getting each one of the five to bet on a different horse, and thus "land a sure winner."

All five were certain to have the same chance, and to stand or fall upon Checkers' judgment.

Some weeks later it was that I first met him, at Washington Park, Derby Day. He told me afterward that the minute he saw me he knew me for a "mark" and tried to "get next."

Yet, for all, Checkers was not innately bad. He was weak, I 'll admit, and cruelly mistaken; but he had a simple, lovable nature, and a natural longing for higher things. A case in point: I learned by chance that he never missed a Sunday at church since the death of his wife. He had no predilection, and I espied him one day in my own sanctuary. When questioned about it he told me these facts, and confessed to the pleasure he found in going.

"I don't know," he said; "I always enjoy it. It's quiet and cool; everybody 's well dressed, and I like to sit there, close my eyes, think over my troubles, and listen to the music. And then, again"--here his voice grew soft--"I 've a feeling that it pleases Pert to know that I 'm there. She liked me to go to church, and I think she knows it now when I go; do n't you? I would n't take a great deal of money and think that she did n't know."

What Pert must have thought of his actions weekdays was perhaps a fair question; but it was one that I had the heart not to ask. And so it went on; my efforts to get him a position and reform him ending in nothing, as I have previously related.

After the big meeting closed Checkers reached his lowest ebb. It was during these days that he made my office a loafing place. I suppose that for six weeks I practically supported him, lending him two or three dollars at a time, to "square his room rent," "get out his overcoat," "pay a doctor's bill," "play a good thing," and heaven knows what not--each time assuring him that I positively would not succumb again, but regularly doing so. Still, I never begrudged it. A couple of hours with him was worth a few dollars at any time. I divided the expense between my amusement and charity accounts; and, in truth, when with him I never could tell whether pleasure or compassion had the upper hand with me. I have tried to set down with some succinctness the major part of his experiences as I heard them; but I fear they have greatly lost, in the telling, that delicious flavor of originality which Checkers' person, voice, and manner gave to them as I heard them piecemeal. Many of his sayings, when repeated afterward by Murray or me, scarcely caused a smile, while coming from him they had seemed to us excruciatingly funny. But I believe the secret was this--he never seemed to say anything with the primary idea of being funny. He always looked up with genuine surprise when his listeners laughed, and only joined them, when the mirth was infectious, by deepening a little the cynical curves at either corner of his expressive mouth.

For two weeks I missed him. On a morning of the third he came in with a look of happiness on his face. "I 've got a job," he said, simply. I wrung his hand.

"Where?" I asked.

"With Mr. Richmond."

Richmond was one of my friends. He was a partner in a wholesale paper-house. As a boy Checkers had worked in a paper-house and knew the stock. As a consequence he had been after Richmond, whom he had met through me, to give him a position. Richmond liked him, and, when an opportunity offered, he sent for him and put him to work in the stock. At the end of two weeks he determined to give Checkers a chance upon the road. So Checkers was going out that night, and had come to say good-bye. I was delighted, you may be sure. I gave him good advice, and bade him Godspeed. A few days later I received this characteristic letter, dated from some little town in Kansas:

"DEAR MR. PRESTON:

"I 'm here doing a stage-coach business--straining the leaders of my legs, hustlin'. If trade keeps up I 'll have coin to melt when I get home, and you bet I 'll melt it. The food out here would poison a dog. I ain't got the health to go against it. I 've been sick ever since I left Chicago, anyhow, on account of Murray Jameson. I met him at the depot the night I left. He had a box of cigars he said a friend of his brought him from Mexico. He gave me a handful. I got on the train, and got busy with one--I like to croaked. Strong!!! Oh, no--it was n't strong! Drop one of them in a can of dynamite and it's ten to one it would 'do' the can. Start a 'Mexican' and a piece of Limburger in a short dash, it's a hundred to one you 'd need a searchlight to find the Limburger. I 've switched to cigarettes.

"I got in here at six to-night, and I 'm going to get away at one. After supper (Supper! I 'll tell you about that later!) I went over to the only shanty in the place that looked like a store, and opened the door. There were a lot of 'Jaspers' sitting around the stove, chewing tobacco and swapping lies. I asked the guy that got up when I came in where he kept his stock (he had nothing in sight). He lighted a lantern, walked me a quarter of a mile, and showed me four 'mooley-cows'--say, I was sore. But I 'm square with him--I gave him a couple of 'Mexicans.'

"That supper! Well, say, it was a 'peach.' (I had an egg this morning and it was a 'bird.') I sat down to the table with a St. Louis shoe-man. We turned the things down one by one as they came in. A few soda-crackers on the table saved our lives. We tried the griddle-cakes. They were pieces of scorched, greasy dough, as big as pie-plates. There were a couple of 'Rubes' at the other end of the table; a short, little, fat one, and a long, lean, thin one. We shoved the cakes on down their way. They ate their own and ours, and ordered more. I bet the shoe-man five on the fat one. We ordered more ourselves and pushed them along. The thin man finally began to weaken, but the fat one got stronger every minute. My friend said I was 'pullin',' and wanted to draw the bet; but I made him 'give up.'

"Just as we were going, the waitress came up with a grouch on, stuck out her chin, and says, 'Pie?'

"'Is it compulsory?' says the shoe-man.

"'Naw; it's mince.'

"'Well, that lets us out,' he says, and we skipped."

_Later_--

"I got interrupted here. The boys wanted me to play 'high-five' until train-time; I picked up a little 'perfumery money,' and came up here to Kansas City to spend Saturday night and Sunday.

"There 's a lot of 'rummies' I used to know hanging around here, 'broke.' They 've all 'got their hand out.' One of them made me a talk last night for enough to get to St. Louis on--said he 'must get there.'