Part 7

Howard went into the doctor's office, as musty a den as ever a fox inhabited. The physician was an old man, who had no future and who prescribed in the past. During the best years of his life he had dozed or talked under the influence of opium, so given to harmless fabrication when awake that it followed him into his slumber, snoring a lie; now cured of the habit but not of the evil it had wrought. When Howard entered the old man was reading a medical journal of 1849, and he glanced up disappointed to see the visitor looking so well. He had met Howard many a time, but his memory was short.

"Ah, come in, sir. Have a seat. You are--let me see.

"My office is just across the hall."

"Yes, yes, I remember. You are in the--the brokerage business. And your name is--"

"I am trying to be a lawyer. Elbridge is my name."

"Of course it is. I used to know your father--was called in consultation just before he died."

"Then it must have been since I left the house this morning."

"Ah, let me see. Elbridge--the Judge. I'm wrong, of course. It was Elsworth. How is your father?"

"That's what I wanted to talk about, and I am sorry that you do not recall him more vividly. I wanted to ask your opinion."

"Why, now I know him as well as I know myself. What is it you wish to consult me about? His health?"

"Well, I hardly know how to get at it. You know he has been a very busy man--working day and night for years; and I wanted to ask if a sudden breaking off isn't dangerous--that is, not exactly dangerous, but likely to induce a change in disposition?"

The doctor looked wise, with his hand flat upon the medical journal, and as it had been printed in the drowsy afternoon of a slow day, seemed to inspire caution against a quick opinion.

"I hold, and have held for years," said he, "that a complete revolution in a man's affairs, sudden riches or sudden poverty--the er--the withdrawing of vital forces necessary to a continuous strain, is a shock to the system, and therefore deleterious. It is unquestionably a fact, not only known to the medical fraternity, but to ordinary observation, that incentive in the aged is a sort of continuance of youth, in other words, to make myself perfectly clear, the impetus of youth when unchecked, goes far into old age--when the pursuit has not been changed; and therefore a sudden halting is bad for the system. Is your father's health impaired?"

"I can't say that it is. He appears to be strong, but his temper is not of the best--toward me. Toward the others he is just the same."

"Ah, not unusual in such cases. It so happened that a sudden change must have taken place in him, and as you were doubtless the first one to come in contact with him after the change, his--his displeasure, if I may be permitted the term, fell upon you."

"But I was not the first one."

"Um, a complication. I shall have to study that up a little. Perhaps I'd better see him."

"Oh, no, don't do that. It really amounts to nothing. I consulted you because you were well acquainted with him. And I am now inclined to think that I have made more of it than it really is. How are you getting along?" Howard asked, to change the subject.

"Never better, sir, I am pleased to say. Of course medicine has degenerated, splitting up into all sorts of specialties, but there are a few people who don't want to be humbugged. Well, I am glad you called," he added as Howard turned to go. "Give my regards to your father."

Howard returned to the office, took up a book which held in closer affinity the laws of verse than the laws of the land, and lying down upon a leather lounge, was borne away by the gentle tide of a rhythmic sea.

*CHAPTER XII.*

*WALKED AND REPENTED.*

A man can be more repentant when he walks than when he rides. The world's most meditative highway is that road which we are told is paved with good intentions; and strolling along it, our determination to reform becomes stronger at each step until--until something occurs to change it all. Bodney walked down town. And for the first time in his life he fancied that he found the very bottom of his mind, and thereon lay a resolution, an oath self-made, self-sworn to tell Howard the truth and to take the consequences no matter what they might be. He had intended, upon getting out of bed to make his confession to the old gentleman, and he would have done so, he fully believed, had not the Judge been engaged with a client. But perhaps after all it would better serve the purposes of justice to confess to Howard. He was the one most deeply injured. Yes, he would go at once to Howard and tell him the truth. It would of course involve Goyle, but he ought to be involved; he was a scoundrel. Perhaps they might both be sent to the penitentiary. No matter, the confession must be made. He passed the building wherein the night before he had agonized under the frown of hard luck; he halted and looked into the entry-way, at the stairs worn and splintered by the heavy feet of the unfortunate. Some strange influence had fallen upon him, some strength not gathered by his own vital forces had come to him, and now he knew that no longer could he be a slave held by chains forged in that house of bondage. As he turned away he met a man who had been in the game the night before. His face was bright and he did not look like a slave.

"How did you come out?" Bodney asked.

"I was ninety in when you left, and I pull out sixty winner."

"You did? You were losing when I left."

"Yes, but they can't beat a man all the time. I tell you it would put me in the hole if I didn't win. I owe at three or four places, and I go around today and pay up."

Then, with a feeling like a sudden sickness at the stomach, came the recollection of the druggist and the preacher, obligations not to be discharged that day. Long after the moral nature has been weakened, the poker player may continue to respect his own word, or rather he may not respect it himself but may desire others to do so. Unless his income is large he must operate mainly upon borrowed capital, and breaking his word cripples his resources. And then, after having lost, there is a self-shame in having borrowed, a confession of weakness. He condemns himself for not having had strength enough to quit when he found that there was no chance to get even. "There never is a chance to get even," Bodney mused as he walked on toward the office. "The old fellow who has worn himself out at the cursed game says so and I believe it. I will tell Howard--nothing shall shake my resolution. I will simply cut my throat before I'll sink myself further in this iniquity. By nature I am not dishonest. If I hadn't met that fellow Goyle I might--but I'll not think of him. Now that fellow didn't play any better cards than I did, was nearly a hundred in and pulled out sixty ahead. And he has paid his debts while I must dodge. I wonder how much I have lost within the past two months. On an average of fifty dollars a sitting. That won't do. I had money enough to--but I won't think about it--won't do any good, and besides it is over with now."

He found Howard in the office writing. "A brief?" said Bodney, sitting down.

"In one sense--short meter," Howard replied.

"What, poetry?"

"Rhyme. I come by it naturally, you know. Have you heard from your friend today, the one you sat up with?"

"Yes, he's better."

"Goyle was here--said he'd be back this afternoon."

"Didn't leave any money--didn't say what he wanted, did he?"

"No. I think he wants to talk more than anything else. He is a smart fellow, George, but I am beginning to find fault with him. I don't like his principles."

"Perhaps he has none," Bodney replied.

"What, have you begun to--"

"Oh, no, I merely said that."

"That's the way he talks--makes a statement and then declares he didn't mean it. By the way, I'm going to get out of this office. There's no use staying here. If father wants to keep it, let him; but you and I ought to be in a more modern building. We have played at the law long enough. What do you say?"

"I don't know but you are right. I would like to do something. Has anyone else called?"

"Yes, Bradley was here."

"Bradley! What did he want?"

"He didn't say what he wanted."

"What did he say?"

"He inquired about your friend--the divinity student."

Bodney was silent, and to him it seemed that he was groping about in his own mind, searching for his resolution, but he could not find it. The preacher might have asked about the divinity student, the wretch mused, but of course he wanted ten dollars; and what if it should be known at the house that he had borrowed the money?

"Howard, can you let me have twenty-five dollars?"

"What, haven't you--you any money?"

"None that I can get hold of. I haven't said anything about it, but the fact is, I have invested in suburban lots, and can make a good profit any time I care to sell out, but I don't want to sell just now."

"Ah, business man, eh?" said Howard, crumpling the paper which he had covered with rhymes and throwing it into the waste basket. "Well, I am going to do something of that sort myself. I am glad you told me. Yes, I'll let you have twenty-five. I have just about that amount with me."

Bodney took the money and seized his hat. "If Goyle comes in, tell him I don't know when I'll be back. By the way, do you suppose Bradley went home?"

"Yes, I think so--in fact, he remarked that he was going home to do some work. Why?"

"Nothing, only he seemed interested in the young fellow I sat up with--wanted to go with me to see him, in fact."

With a determination to pay the druggist and to go at once to Bradley's house, Bodney left the office, still wondering, though, what had become of his resolve to make a confession to Howard. But he would fortify himself against trivial annoyances and then, morally stronger, he could confess. As he was crossing the street he thought of the fellow who had won sixty dollars. "No better player than I am," he mused. "He hung on, that's all. Now, when I pay the preacher and the druggist I'll have five dollars left. And with that five dollars I might win out. If I had held to my resolution not to stay in on so many four flushes I might have won out anyway. But the other fellows filled flushes and straights against me. Why couldn't I against them? Simply because it wasn't my day. But this may be my day. My day must come some time. As that fellow said, 'they can't beat a man all the time.' Why not go to the club first? Then, if I win, I can easily meet my obligations."

He went to the club. The game was full, but a "house" player got up and gave him a seat. He bought ten dollars' worth of chips, and the first hand he picked up was three queens. The pot was opened ahead of him and another man came in. Bodney raised; they stood it, and drew one card each. To disguise his hand, Bodney drew one, holding up a six. He caught a six. The opener bet a white chip. The next man raised him three dollars. Bodney raised all he had. The opener laid down; the other man studied. "Is it that bad?" he asked, peeping at the tips of his cards. Bodney said nothing; his blood was tingling, but in his eyes there was a far-away look.

"It's up to you, Griff," said an impatient fellow.

"Yes, so I see; but I'm playing this hand. Raised it and drew one card, then raised a one-card draw. Well, I've got to call you."

"Queen full."

"Beats a flush. Take the hay."

And now Bodney's troubles all were luminous. The wine of the game flowed through his veins and made his heart drunk with delight. He held a pat flush, won a big pot and felt a delicious coolness in his mind, the chamber wherein he had groped through darkness, searching for the lost resolution. But now it was light, and was crowded with charming fancies. He bubbled wit and simmered humor, and the look-out man said, "you bet, he's a good one." His stack was building so high that he could hardly keep from knocking it over--did overturn it with a crash, and a loud voice called to the porter: "Chip on the floor." The man attendant upon the desk came over, put his hand on Bodney's shoulder and said: "Give it to 'em; eat 'em up."

In the game there was a mind-reader, and they called him Professor. In his "studio" he told marvelous things, brought up the past and read the future. Hundreds of persons consulted him, race-track men looking for tips, board of trade men wanting to know the coming trend of the market; and in the twilight came the blushing maiden to ask if her lover were true. In deepest secret you might write a dozen questions, put them in your pocket and button your coat, but the Professor could read them. He was unquestionably a mind-reader--till he sat down to play poker--and then his marvelous powers failed him. The most unintuitive man at the table could beat him. Bodney slaughtered him. "Can you make those things every time?" said the Professor, calling a three-dollar bet.

"Not every time," Bodney replied, spreading a straight, "but I made it this time."

"You can make them every time against me. You are the luckiest man I ever saw. Do you always win?"

"I have lost more within the last two months than any man that comes up the stairs."

"That's right," said the look-out.

One wretched fellow, who had been struggling hard, got up broke. He strove to appear unconcerned, but despair was written on his face. As he walked across the room toward the door the man at the desk called to him. He turned with the light of a vague hope in his eye. In consideration of his hard luck was the house about to stake him? "Have a cigar before you go," said the man at the desk. The light went out of the wretch's eye. He took the cigar and drooped away, to beg for an extension from his landlord, to plead with the grocer, to lie to his wife.

At six o'clock Bodney cashed in one hundred and four dollars. He would eat dinner with them, but he would not play afterward. He had tried that before. His eye-tooth had not only been cut; it had been sharpened to the point of keenest wisdom. While he was at the dinner table Goyle came in and took a seat behind him.

"Understand you sewed up the game," said the master.

"I've got just about enough to pay up what I owe," replied the slave.

"Come off. Let me have twenty."

"I can't do it--swear I can't. I owe all round town. I let you have ten yesterday, you know."

"That's all right. You'll get it again--you know that. Let me have twenty."

"I can't possibly do it."

But he did. Goyle got up and walked out into the hall with him, put his hand on his arm and stood a long time, talking, gazing into his eyes. So Bodney gave him the money and hastened away, his spirits somewhat dampened. But his heart was still light enough to keep him pleased with himself. Luck had surely turned. He would win enough to replace the money taken from the safe, and then he would make a confession. But, that fellow Goyle! What was the secret of his infatuating influence? How did he inspire common words with such power, invest mere slang with such command? But his influence could not last; indeed, it was weakening. And when thus he mused his heart grew lighter. "He couldn't make me aid and abet a robbery now," he said. "I would turn on him and rend him. Let him take the money. The debt is now large enough to make him shun me." With a smile and a merry salutation he stepped into the drug store, and handed the druggist ten dollars, apologizing for not having called during the day, but he had been busy and did not suppose that it would make any particular difference. The druggist assured him that it did not. Good fortune in its many phases may be taken as a matter of course, but the return of borrowed money is nearly always a surprise. The druggist gave him a cigar.

"Thank you," said Bodney. "By the way, have you an envelope and stamp?"

He found an envelope, but no stamp. A young woman who had held his telephone for ten minutes had bought the last one. It was of no consequence; Bodney could get one at the next corner. Tearing a scrap of paper out of his notebook and putting it upon a show case, he scribbled a few lines upon it, folded a ten dollar note in the paper, enclosed it in the envelope and directed it to Bradley.

"I guess that ought to be safe enough," he said.

"I don't know," replied the druggist.

"Well, I'll risk it. Again let me thank you for your kindness. It isn't often that I am forced to borrow, and wouldn't have done so last night but for--"

"Oh, that's all right. Come in again," he added, as Bodney stepped out. At the next corner he stamped his letter and went out to drop it into a box, but before reaching it was accosted by someone, the Professor whom he had slaughtered in the game.

"How did you come out?" Bodney asked.

"You broke me."

"Didn't you sit in after dinner?"

"For about three minutes--first hand finished me. I see you have a letter there with ten dollars in it."

"What! How do you know?"

"And a note written with a pencil."

"Why, that's marvelous. How do you do it?"

The Professor smiled. "It is the line of my business. Why don't you come up to my place some time? I can tell you many things."

It flashed through Bodney's mind that he might tell him many things, and he shrank back from him. "I will, one of these days," he said, and strode off without dropping his letter into the box. He put it into his pocket, intending to stop at the next corner, but forgot it. "Now, what?" he mused. "Believe I'll go home." He got on a car, but stepped off before it started. He went to a hotel, into the reading room, and took up a newspaper, but found nothing interesting in it. His thoughts were upon the game. In his mind was the red glare of a pat diamond flush. He could see it as vividly as if it had been held before his eye. Was it prophetic? He strolled out, not in the direction of the Wexton Club; but he changed his course, and was soon mounting the stairs. There was no seat, but the man at the desk said that there were enough players to start another game. The game was organized with four regulars, Bodney and another fool. The regulars took twenty dollars' worth of chips apiece; the two fools took ten, and within ten minutes Bodney was buying more. A man got up from the other table, and Bodney returned to his old seat, where he knew that luck waited for him. The desk man came over to him. "That other gentleman is number one," said he. Just then a new arrival took the seat which Bodney had vacated and number one called out: "Let him go ahead. I'll stay here." And there, sure enough, was the pat diamond flush. Wasn't it singular that he should have seen it glowing upon the surface of his mind? And wasn't it fortunate that the pot was opened ahead of him? He raised and the opener stayed and drew one card. He bet a white chip and Bodney raised. The opener gave him what was termed the "back wash," re-raised. Then the beauty of the flush began to fade. Could it be that the fellow--the very same offensive fellow, who had beaten him before--could have filled his hand? Or, had he drawn to threes and "sized" Bodney for a revengeful "bluff?"

"Well, I'll have to call you," said Bodney. He put in his money and the offensive fellow showed him a ten full.

"You always beat me."

"I do whenever I can."

"But you make it a point to beat me."

"Make it a point to beat anybody."

"Well, I don't want any abuse and I won't have it."

"Play cards, boys," said the look-out.

"What's the matter with you, worms?" said the offensive fellow, looking at Bodney.

"Play like brothers," spoke up the look-out.

At a little after eleven o'clock Bodney came down as heavy as a drowned man. His heart was full of bitterness. He cursed the world and all that was in it. He called on God to strike him dead. Then he swore that there could be no God; there was nothing but evil and he was the embodiment of it. But if he had only ten dollars he could win out. He had won, and it was but reason to suppose that he could win again. Any old player, imbued with the superstitions of the game, would have told him that to go back was to lose. "I'll go over and see that druggist again," he mused. "Strange that I have lived in this town all my life and don't know where to get money after eleven o'clock at night. I ought to have set my stakes better than that. And now, what excuse can I give for coming back to borrow again so soon? Perhaps he isn't there." Nor was he there. Bodney looked in with anxiety toward the show case behind which he expected to see his friend, and with contempt at the soda-water man. He thought of the envelope. He pictured himself standing there, smiling, a few hours before--and like an arrow came the recollection of the note directed to the preacher. He wheeled about, rushed across the street, jostling through the crowd which was still thick upon the sidewalk, raced around the corner, swam through another crowd, bounded across another street just in front of a cable train, and, breathless, panted up the stairway leading to the Wexton. Before touching the electric button he tore open the envelope, took out the money, destroyed the note; he touched the button and wondered if the black porter would ever come. Undoubtedly the game must have broken up. No, there was the black face, grim in the vitreous light. And there was a vacant seat, his old, lucky seat.

"Bring me ten," he called, as he sat down. And addressing the look-out, he asked if Goyle had been there. He had played a few pots after dinner, but had quit early.

"Did he win?"

"I think he win a few dollars. Said he had an engagement on the West Side."

"Leave me out," said a man, counting his imposing stack of chips. "Never mind, I'll play this one." A hand had been dealt him. "But I've got to go after this hand; oughtn't to stay as long as I do. Got to catch a train. Who opened it?"

"I did," replied a regular.

"Raise you."

"So soon? Well, I'll have to trot you. Tear me one off the roof."

"I'll play these," said the man who had to catch a train.

"You'd better take some. He won't come round again. Well, I'll chip it up to you."

"Raise you three."

The regular raised him back. The man who had to go raised, and the regular fired back at him, nor did the contest end here, but when it did end the regular spread an ace full to overcast with the shade of defeat three queens and a pair. And the man who had been in a hurry continued to sit there. At short intervals, during half an hour or more, he had snapped his watch, but he did not snap it now. Trains might come and trains might go, but he was not compelled to catch them; he lost his last chip, bought more, lost, and, finally, accepted carfare from the man at the desk. Bodney won, and the world threw off its sables and put on bright attire, and at two o'clock he thought of cashing in, though not quite even. He lacked just seventy-five cents--three red chips. He would play one more pot. He lost, and now he was two dollars behind, the pot having been opened for a dollar and twenty-five cents. Pretty soon he had a big hand beaten.

"I see my finish," he said.

"You can't win every pot," replied a railway engineer, who had failed to take out his train. "I have four pat hands beat and every set of threes I pick up. Serves me right. Pot somebody for a bottle of beer."

"You're on," replied the dealer, a comical-looking countryman, known as Cy. "Deal 'em lower, I can see every card," someone remarked; and just at that moment Cy turned over a deuce and replied: "Can't deal 'em much lower than that, can I?"

But who is this going down the stairs just as daylight is breaking? And why is he making such gestures? It is Bodney, and he is swearing that he will never play again.

*CHAPTER XIII.*