Part 5

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.

"Very soon, I think. Sit down and make yourself comfortable. Have a cigar." He lighted the cigar and resumed his walk. Passing the table he saw a man in the death throes of a "show-down." Some one had opened a pot and he had been compelled to stay. Bodney eagerly watched the draw. The opener drew one card. The "show-down" man had to draw four, presumably to an ace. This was encouraging to Bodney. He was the next in line; he would get the seat. He leaned forward to catch the result. The opener had tens up. The four-card draw yielded a better crop, aces up, and with a sense of disappointment and injury Bodney resumed his walk. But pretty soon a man cashed in, and the young lawyer bought five dollars worth of chips, and took his seat. He won the first pot, the second and the third, but without stayers. Surely his luck had returned. Again he felt a current of pleasure flowing through his mind. He laughed at a stale joke. It had never sounded so well before. A man, the offensive fellow, now quite a gentleman, began to tell a story, and Bodney encouraged him with a smile. "I knew a man once, a preacher, by the way," said he, "who got into the habit of playing faro; I guess he must have played before he began to preach, and found that he couldn't quit. Some fellow that was kin to him croaked, and left him a lot of money. Then he knew he wouldn't play any more. Well, one day he went by the bank where he had his money, and pretty soon he says to himself: 'Believe I'll draw out just a small sum and try my luck once more--just once.' Well, he kept drawing on that money till it is all gone. Nothing to it, you know. Then one night he gets down on his knees and prays. 'Lord,' says he, 'if I ever play again I hope you'll make me lose.'"

"Did he play again?" Bodney asked.

"Yes; he keep right on."

"And did he lose?"

"No. He coppers his bets."

Bodney was immensely tickled at the idea of the fellow "coppering" his bets to offset the influence of the Deity, and he laughed uproariously, but just then he lost a pot, and his mirth fell dead. And after this every time he opened a pot someone would raise him. After a while he dragged out his last five dollars and invested in chips. Then he sank into the condition known as "sifting," anteing and never getting a pair. Behind him stood a man waiting for his seat. He saw his last chip melt away and he got up, so heavy that he could hardly stand. The fellow who had told the story, and to whom Bodney had paid the tribute of most generous laughter, dealt the cards and skipped Bodney without even looking at him. But Bodney looked at him, and how offensive he was. "I'd like to cut his infamous throat," he mused. Down the stairs again he went, heavier and more desperate than before. It was now past midnight. "Now what?" he said, halting on a corner and wiping his hot face. "I don't know what to do, but I almost know I could win out if I had ten more. But I don't know where to get it. There's no use to look for Goyle. I wonder if that fellow at the drug store would let me have another ten. I'll go and see." He crossed over, went into the drug store, and asked the squirter of soda water if his friend was there. No, he had gone home. "Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Well, I don't know. By the way, you've seen me in here a number of times, haven't you?"

"Oh, yes. And I used to see you over at the other place."

"Yes, I remember, now. And your name is--"

"Watkins."

"Yes, that's a fact. I remember you now. How are you getting along, Watkins?"

"All right."

"Yes, sir, I used to know you," said Bodney. "And I guess you are about the best in your line."

The man smiled. "Well, that's what they say."

"Yes, I've heard a good many people say it. Well, you understand your business. Say, can you do me a favor? I need ten dollars till tomorrow morning, and if you'll let me have it, I'll--"

The man shut him off with the shake of the head. "I haven't got ten cents," he said.

Bodney stepped out. "Come in again," the fellow called after him. He did not reply, except in a mumble, to hurl imprecations back over his shoulder at the soda-water man. "He's a liar, and I'll bet he's a thief. Now what?" he added, halting on the corner. He looked up and down the street, and scanned the faces of the passers-by, hoping to recognize an acquaintance. Presently a man rushed up and with a "helloa, old fellow," grasped him by the hand. Bodney gripped him; he did not recall his name, but he held him close. "I haven't seen you for some time," said Bodney.

"No, not since we were out on Lake Geneva, fishing for cisco."

"That's a fact. Say, everybody has closed up, and I need ten dollars till tomorrow morning. Can you--"

"I was just going to ask you for five," said the cisco fisherman. "I went over here at three sixty-one, and got into a little game of poker and got busted. Ever over there? Now, there's a good game, only two dollars limit, but it's liberal. There ain't a tight wad in the house. Come up some time."

Bodney got on a car to go home. He had just five cents. The talking of two women and the frolicking of a party of young fellows annoyed him. And then arose before him the sorrowful face of his sister. The rat had come back with his teeth sharpened, and he felt his heart bleeding. He fancied that he could hear the dripping of the blood. Then came upon him the resolve never to play another game of poker. It was a sure road to ruin, to despair. He would confess to Howard and the Judge. The car stopped and Bradley, the preacher, got on, sitting down opposite Bodney, who, upon recognizing him, arose and warmly shook his hand. "I am delighted to see you, Mr. Bradley. You are out thus late for the good of humanity, I suppose, or rather I know."

"I can only hope so," replied the preacher.

"Some sort of meeting of preachers for the advancement of morals, Mr. Bradley?"

"No, a dinner."

"Well, a good dinner contributes to good morals."

"If not over-indulged in."

"Yes, if there is a virtuous lack of wine, such as must have been the case tonight." He continued to stand, holding a strap, and meditating upon future procedure, for there was a purpose in the cordiality with which he had greeted the minister, a purpose now fully developed. "By the way, I must come down again tonight--am going home to get some money. Late this evening I received a note, telling me that a friend of mine, a divinity student, was exceedingly ill. I hastened to the number given and found him in a poverty-stricken room, lying upon a wretched bed, without a nurse, almost delirious with suffering. I knew that he was poor, that he had bent his energies to study to the neglect of material things, but I had not expected to find him in so deplorable a condition. So I am now on my way home to get ten dollars. I went to several places, hoping that I could borrow, but failed to find any one whom I knew well enough to ask for a loan, even for so short a time as tomorrow. But perhaps you could let me have it."

"Why, I'll go with you--at once. What is the young man's name?"

"Patterson. But he's so peculiar that he might not like to see a stranger. He begged me not to say anything about his condition."

Bradley gave him ten dollars, and he did not wait to reach the next street crossing, but jumped off the car, sprang upon a cable train going north, and was soon climbing the stairs leading to the Wexton Club. The same negro admitted him, and again he was afraid that the game might have dissolved, merely to cheat him of victorious reprisal, but it was still in progress, with one vacant seat. This time he invested his entire amount. The feeling of security, inspired by a reserve fund, favored an over-confidence, he fancied; it was better to know that there was nothing in reserve; it enforced caution. He played with varying luck till about twelve o'clock, till a regular smote him, hip and thigh; and then, like the captain, in the version of the poem, not recited to ladies, he staggered down the stairs.

*CHAPTER VIII.*

*SAW THE BLACK FACE, GRIM, WITHOUT A SMILE.*

It was nearly daylight when Bodney reached home. As he stood on the steps, after unlocking the door, he looked toward the east and said aloud: "The sun will soon draw to his flush. But he always makes it. God, what a night I've had. It is the last one, for here at the threshold of a new day I swear that I will never touch another card. And Goyle--I'll have nothing more to do with him." He went in, still repeating his vow, and as he passed the door of the office, was surprised to see a light within; and halting, he heard footsteps slowly pacing up and down. He stepped in and stood face to face with the Judge.

"Why, Judge, are you up so soon, or haven't you gone to bed?"

"I haven't been to bed. And you?"

"I have been sitting up with a sick friend. Don't you think you'd better lie down now?"

"No, I think nothing of the sort. It is better to stand in hell, sir, than to wallow in it." Bodney sat down and the old man stood facing him. "But I can hardly realize that it was not a nightmare, George. Go over it with me; tell me about it. How did it happen?"

"Why, we simply came in here together and found--him. That's all."

"Yes, that's all, but it is enough."

"Was there very much money involved?" Bodney asked, not knowing what else to say.

"Money! I haven't once thought of the amount. It is the fact that I have been shot with an arrow taken from my own quiver, and poisoned. And yet, when I look at him, as I did today at dinner, I can hardly bring myself to believe my own eyes."

"You haven't--haven't said anything to him, have you?"

"In the way of accusation? No. It would leap from him to his mother. And I charge you to breathe it to no one."

"Not even my sister, who is to be his wife?"

"No. I will take her case in hand."

"But will you permit them to marry?"

"Not in a house of God; not in the presence of a guest. If she is determined to marry him against my protest, it must be in secret, as his deed was."

"I hope, sir, that everything may--may come out right."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Why, I hope that you may forgive him. I don't think that he's dishonest at heart."

"Then you are a fool."

"I admit that, Judge. I am a fool, an infamous fool."

"But you are not a scoundrel, not a thief."

"I might be worse."

"Enough of that. You are trying to debase yourself to raise him. Don't do it. You can't afford it. You have an honest living to make, and through you I must now look to the future." He turned away, and for a time walked up and down in silence; then, coming back, resumed his place in front of Bodney. "It all comes from my over-confidence in modern civilization. I did not presume to instruct or even advise him as to a course of reading, permitting him to exercise his own fancy; and it led him to that running sore on the face of the earth--Paris. He read French books, the germs thrown off by diseased minds. He lived in a literary pest house, and how could he come out clean? He was prepared for any enormity against nature, and why then should he have drawn the line between me and any of his desires?" He turned away, walking up and down, sometimes rubbing his hands together, as if washing them, then putting them behind him; halting at the desk to gaze down at something; going once to the safe and putting his hand upon it, but snatching it away as if the iron were hot. Bodney followed him about with his eyes, seeing him through cards, hearts and spades. His mind flew back to the game, and he could see the players sitting just as he had left them, the offensive fellow and the regular, behind a redoubt of chips. Only ten dollars more would have saved him; he had fancied so before, but now it was not fancy but almost a perfect knowledge. Why had he not asked the preacher for twenty instead of ten?

"'But it is so strange," said the old man, sitting down with one arm straight out upon the green baize table; and the wretch with his mind on the game thought that it would be but an ungainly position for a player to take; he ought to sit facing the table with his hands in front of him. "Stranger than truth," said the Judge, and Bodney looked at him with a start. For a moment the game vanished and darkness fell upon the players, but soon a blue curtain was pulled aside, a black face, grim, without a smile, showed glistering behind the glass, the door was opened, and there again were the players in the light, the offensive fellow drawing one card, the regular solemn and confident with a hand that was pat. "Stranger than the strangest truth that I have ever encountered," the Judge went on, turning his back to the table and looking over Bodney's head at something on the wall. "But I brood too much."

"One card," said Bodney, in a thick muse.

"What's that?"

The young man started. "Nothing."

"You said something about a card."

"Yes, sir; it was sent in to me tonight while I was with my sick friend--man wanted to see him on business and insisted upon coming in, and it was all I could do to put him off."

"Brood too much," the Judge repeated, after a brief interval of silence. "The mind mildews under any one thing that lies upon it long. A continuous joy might be as poisonous as a grief." He leaned forward with his head in his hands, and talked in a smothered voice.

"The sun is coming up," said Bodney. "Don't you think you'd better lie down?"

"You go to bed. Don't mind me."

"Believe I will. I am worn out, and I don't see how you can stand it as well as you do."

"In worry there is a certain sort of strength. Go to bed."

Bodney got up and went to the door, but turned and looked at the old man, bowed over with his fingers pressed to his eyes. The coming of the sun had driven the game further off into the night, and now the wretch's heart smote him hard. He could lift that gray head; into those dull eyes he could throw the light of astonishment, but they would shoot anger at him and drive him out of the house. If he could only win enough to replace the money taken from the safe, to give himself the standing of true repentance, he would confess his crime. Win enough! He could not conceive of getting it in any other way; all idea of business had been driven from his mind. He had no mind, no reason; what had been his mind was now a disease on fire, half in smoke and half in flame, but he felt that if he could get even, the fire would go out and the smoke clear away. The old fellow who turned moralist could have told him that he had for more than half a life-time struggled to get even, that the poker fool is never even but twice, once before he plays and once after he is dead. And the scholar who had forgotten his grammar in the constant strain of the present tense would have assured him that the hope to get even was a trap set by the devil to catch the imaginative mind.

The Judge groaned, and Bodney took a step toward him, with his hands stretched forth as if he would grasp him and shake him into a consciousness of the truth, but the old man looked up and the young man faltered. "I thought you were going to bed, George."

"I am, sir."

"Then, why do you stand there looking at me?"

"I--I don't know," he stammered, in his embarrassment.

"Yes, you do know," said the Judge, giving him a straight and steady look. "You know that you are hanging about to plead the cause of your--your friend; but it is of no use. Friend! I would to God he had been my friend. Confess, now; isn't that the reason you are standing there?"

"You read my mind, Judge," said the wretch.

"Do I? Then read mine and go to bed."

As Bodney turned toward the door, he met William coming in. The old fellow carried his coat thrown across one arm and was trying to button his shirt collar. It was his custom to begin dressing at his bedside, grabbing up the first garment within reach, and to complete his work in the office, the basement, or even the back yard. "Hold on a minute," he said to Bodney. "Button this infernal collar for me." Bodney halted to obey. "Can't you take hold of it? Is it as slick as all that? Do you think I wear an eel around my neck? Confound it, don't choke the life out of me. Get away. I can do it better myself. Didn't I tell you to quit? Are you a bull-dog, that you have to hang on that way?"

Bodney trod heavily to his room. The old fellow threw his coat on the table and began to walk about, tugging at his collar.

"Do you think you can button it here better than in your own room?" the Judge asked, straightening up and looking at him. "Has this office been set aside as a sort of dressing parade ground for you?"

William was muttering and fuming. "I was Judge Lynch out West, once, and was about to set a horse-thief free, but just then I incidentally heard that he had sold collars and I ordered him hanged. Did you speak to me, John?"

"I asked you a question."

"I knew a Universalist preacher that changed his religion on account of a collar--swore that its inventor must necessarily go to the flames. What was the question you asked me, John?"

"One that would have no more effect on you than a drop of water on the back of a mole."

William buttoned his collar, tied his cravat, took a seat opposite his brother and looked hard at him. "John, I see that your temper hasn't improved. And you have got up early to turn it loose on me. Now, what have I done? Hah, what have I done?"

"I have never heard of your doing anything, William."

"That's intended as an insult. Oh, I understand you. You never heard of my doing anything. You haven't? You never heard of my electing two governors out West. You bat your eyes at the fact that I sent a man to the United States Senate. Why, at one time I owned the whole state of Montana, and a man who had never done anything couldn't--couldn't make that sort of showing."

"What did you do with the state?"

"What did I do with it? A nice question to ask a man. What did Adam do with the Garden of Eden?"

"You were not driven out of Montana, were you?"

"Driven out? Who said I was driven out?"

"But Adam was driven out of the garden."

"Oh, yes, of course. I merely spoke of the Garden of Eden for the reason that Adam's claim on it was only sentimental, if I may call it such. I mean that I owned the good opinion of every man in the state. I could have had anything within the gift of the commonwealth."

"Then, why didn't you go to the Senate, or elect yourself governor? Why were you so thoughtless a prodigal of your influence?"

"That's a nice question to ask a man. Why didn't you buy an acre in this town that would have made you worth millions? Why didn't I go to the Senate? I had something else on my mind. Every man is not ambitious to hold office. There's something higher than politics. I was educated for a different sphere of action. I was, as you know, educated for a preacher, but my faith slipped from under me. But it is of no use to talk to you."

"Not much, William, I admit."

"But can't you tell me why this peculiar change has come over you? It worries me, and you know why."

The Judge made a gesture. "Don't--it's not that. My mind is perfectly sound."

"Then, what's the trouble?"

"I can't tell you."

"Am I ever to know?"

"I hope not."

"I don't see why you should give me the keen edge of your temper and not tell me the cause that led you to whet it against me."

"I have not whetted it against you--it has been whetted on my heart. Go away, William, and leave me to myself."

"I would if you were yourself, but you are not. There is something the matter with you."

"I grant that."

"And in it there is cause for alarm, both for you and for myself."

"Now, please don't allude to that again. My mind is perfectly sound, I tell you."

"And so one dear to us often declared."

The Judge got up. "I shall have to command you to leave this room."

"Then, of course, I'll go. Here comes your wife. Rachel, there is something radically wrong with John, and I advise you to send for the best physician in this town."

*CHAPTER IX.*

*HEARD A GONG IN THE ALLEY.*

More than once during the night had Mrs. Elbridge looked in upon her husband, to urge upon him the necessity for rest. But he had told her that he had on hand the most important case that ever came to him, declared that the life of a man depended upon his meditation; a new point in law was involved, and it would be a crime to sleep until his work was done. The governor of the state had submitted the question to him. And thus had she been put off, having no cause to doubt him; but now she caught William's alarm. "My dear," said the Judge, when she approached him, "it seems that both you and my brother are struggling hard to misunderstand me. You know that I have never deceived you--you know that I would tell you if there were anything wrong. It is true that the death of my brother Henry has shocked me greatly--"

"But why don't you tell William? He ought to know. And it is our duty to tell him."

The old man, looking toward the door, held up his hand. "No, he must not be told--nor must anyone else. I have an object."

"But, my dear, I don't see--"

"I know you don't. And I cannot tell you--I can--can merely hint. It is a question of life insurance, and the company must not hear of his death till certain points are settled. William, as you know, while one of the best men in the world, has a slippery tongue. And, besides, he is in no condition now to hear bad news. It is a secret, but he is having trouble with his heart--under treatment. Let us wait till he is stronger."

"But, dear, is that a cause why you should frown so at Howard, and treat him with such contempt?"

He walked away from her, but she followed him and put her hand on his arm. They halted near the safe and stood in silence, he looking at the iron chest, she looking at him. The sound of a peddler's gong came from the alley, and he sprang back from the safe and dropped heavily down upon a chair. Florence was heard talking to someone, and Mrs. Elbridge called her, and at this the old man brightened. Florence was his recourse, his safeguard, and when she came in he greeted her with something of his former heartiness.

"Florence, they are worried about me. Tell them that they have no cause."

The young woman's face was bright with a smile, but it was a light without warmth, a kindly light intended to deceive, not the Judge, but his wife. Mrs. Elbridge looked at her husband and was astonished at the change in him. She could not understand it, but she was not halting to investigate causes. "You are our physician, Florence," she said. "But you must bring your patient under better discipline. He didn't go to bed at all last night."