Chapter 9

One day, after he had won more than a dollar,--which seems a good deal of money to a boy in his condition,--he began to lose. This was not so amusing. He had made up his mind that when his winnings were gone, he would stop playing; and the idea of stopping was not pleasant to contemplate. How could he give up a sport which surpassed everything else in the way of excitement? However, he determined to keep his resolution. And it was soon brought to a test.

The luck had turned, and Frank found himself where he began. If he played any more, he must risk his own money. He didn't mind losing a few pennies,--that was nothing serious; but the boys were not playing for simple pennies now.

"I believe I've played enough, boys," said he, passing his hand across his heated brow, and casting his eyes around at objects which looked strange to them after their long and intense application to the cards.

"O, of course!" sneered Jack Winch, who was watching the game, "Frank'll stop as soon as he is beginning to lose a little."

Jack was not playing, for a very good reason. He had spent nearly all his money, and lost the rest. He had lost some of it to Frank, and was consequently very desirous of seeing the latter brought to the same condition as himself.

The sneering remark stung Frank. He would gladly have pleaded Jack's excuse for not playing any more; but he had still in his pocket over two dollars of the money he had reserved for himself when the troops were paid off. And it did seem rather mean in him, now he thought of it, to throw up the game the moment others were serving him as he had been only too willing to serve them.

"I'm not afraid of losing my money," said he, blushing; "but I've had enough play for one day."

"You didn't get sick of it so easy when the luck was on your side," said Harris, who had lost money to Frank, and now wanted his revenge.

"For instance, yesterday, when the Parrott was talking to the boy," said Seth.

The Parrott he spoke of was one of the twelve-pound Parrott guns the schooner carried; and the boy was the _buoy_, or target, in the water, at which the gunners had practised firing round shot. Frank remembered how all wanted to put aside the cards and watch the sport except himself. At another time he would have taken great interest in it, and have been on hand to cheer as enthusiastically as any body when the well-aimed shots struck the water; but his mind was completely absorbed in winning money. There was no such noble diversion on deck to-day; and it was only too easy to set? his real reason for getting so soon tired of bluff.

"That's right, Frank; stop! Now's a good time," said Atwater, who watched the game a good deal, but never took a hand in it.

"Well, I shan't urge him, ef he's in 'arnest," said Seth; "though he has kep' me at it a darned sight longer 'n I wanted to, sometimes, when 'twas my tin 'stid of his'n that was goin' by the board. Stop where ye be, my bold drummer boy; keep yer money, ef ye've got any left; that is the best way, after all. 'I know the right, and I approve it, too; I know the wrong, and yet the wrong pursue,'" added Tucket, dealing the cards.

No doubt he meant to give Frank good advice. But to the sensitive and proud spirit of the boy, it sounded like withering sarcasm. He couldn't stand that.

"I'll play fifteen minutes longer," said he, looking at his watch, "if that'll please you."

"A quarter of an hour!" said Harris, contemptuously. "We'd better all stop now, and come at it fresh again, by and by."

The proposition was acceded to; for what could Frank say against it? He had not the courage to say, "Boys, I feel that I have been doing wrong, and I mean to stop at once;" but he thought it more manly to play once more, if only to show that he was not afraid of losing. "And perhaps," he thought, remembering his former luck, "I shall win."

XVI.

HOW FRANK LOST HIS WATCH.

Play again he did accordingly; and, sure enough, he won. He brought Tucket to his last dime. The poetical and philosophic spirit in which that good-humored young man contemplated his losses, was worthy of a better cause.

"'Fare thee well, and, if forever, still forever fare thee well,'" he remarked, staking the said dime. And when it was lost,--for Frank "raked the pile,"--he added, pathetically, going from Byron to Burns, "'Fare thee weel, thou brightest, fairest; fare thee weel, thou last and dearest! Had we never loved sae kindly, had we never loved sae blindly, never met, or never parted, I had ne'er been broken-hearted.' Boys, I'm dead broke, and must quit off, without some of you that are flush will lend me a quarter."

"Ask Frank," said Ellis; "he's the flushest."

So Frank lent Seth a quarter, and with that quarter Seth won back all his money, and, in the course of two more sittings, cleaned Frank out, as the phrase is.

Then, one would say, Frank had a valid excuse to retire, if not before. He had risked his money, and lost it. Certainly nothing more could be expected of him. Seth grinned, and Jack Winch rubbed his hands with delight.

But now _Frank_ was not content. His heart was gnawed by chagrin. He had not really wished to stop playing at all; for the sense of vacancy and craving which always, in such natures, succeeds the cessation of unhealthy excitement, is misery enough in itself. But to have left off with as much money in his pocket as he began with, would have been felicity, compared with the bitter consciousness of folly, the stinging vexation and regret, which came with his misfortunes.

"I'll lend ye, if ye like," said the good-natured Seth--perhaps in return for the similar favor he had received; or rather because he pitied the boy, and meant to let him win back his money; for, with all his mischief and drollery, this Tucket was one of the most generous and kind-hearted of Frank's friends.

The offer was gladly accepted; and Frank, praying Fortune to favor him, made a promise in his heart, that, if she would aid him to recover his losses, he would then bid farewell forever to the enticing game.

But the capricious goddess does not answer prayers. On the contrary, she delights to side with those who need her least, spurning away the supplicants at her feet.

Frank borrowed a quarter, and lost it immediately. He borrowed again, determined to play more carefully. He waited until he had an excellent hand, then staked his money.

Tucket and Ellis did not play; and the game was between Frank and Harris. Both were confident, and they kept doubling their stakes, Frank borrowing again and again of Seth for the purpose. He held four kings, the strongest hand but one in the game. He knew Harris's style of playing too well to be much daunted by his audacity, not believing that he held that one stronger hand than his.

"I'll lend ye as long as ye call for more," said Seth; "only, seeing you've borrowed already more'n I've won of ye, s'posin' ye give me some security?"

"I've nothing to give," said Frank.

"There's your watch," suggested Winch, who had had a glimpse of Joe's cards. And at the same time he winked significantly, giving Frank to understand that his antagonist had not a hand of very great strength.

Thus encouraged, sure of victory, and too much beside himself to consider the sacred nature of the object he was placing in pawn, Frank handed over his watch to Seth, and received from him loan after loan, until he was eight dollars in his debt. Seth did not like to advance any more than that on the watch. So the critical moment arrived. Frank, with flushed face and trembling hands, placed his all upon the board. Then Harris, showing his cards, with a smile, swept the pile towards his cap.

"Let me see!" cried Frank, incredulous, staying his arm until he could be sure of the cards.

His flushed face turned white; his hand fell upon the bench as if suddenly palsied.

"Two pairs of aces! that's what I call luck, Joe," said Winch, scarce able to restrain his joyous chuckling.

Frank looked up at him with wild distress and kindling fury in his face.

"It was you, Jack Winch! You made me----"

"Made you what?" said John, insolently.

What, indeed? He had by looks, which spoke as plainly as words, assured Frank that Harris held but an indifferent hand; whereas he held the best the pack afforded. By that falsehood,--for, with looks and actions at your command, it is not necessary to open your mouth in order to tell the most downright, absolute lie,--he had induced Frank to play on boldly to his own ruin.

But was he alone to blame? Even if he had told the truth about Joe's hand, ought Frank to have been influenced by it? He had no right to that knowledge, and to take advantage of it was dishonest.

No doubt Frank himself thought so, now he reflected upon it. To accuse Jack was to confess his own disingenuousness. He was by nature as fair and open as the day; he despised a base deception; and it was only as an inevitable consequence of such wrong doings as lead directly to faithlessness and duplicity, that he could ever become guilty of these immoralities.

Such is the vice of gambling--a process by which men hope to obtain their neighbors' goods without yielding an equivalent for them; and which, therefore, inflames covetousness, and accustoms the mind to the contemplation of unjust gains, until it is ready to resort to any unjust means of securing them. Do you say there are honest gamblers? The term is a contradiction. You might, with equal consistency, talk of truthful liars. To get your money, or any thing else, without rendering an equitable return, is the core of all dishonesty, whether in the gamester, the pickpocket, the man who cheats in trade, or the boy who robs orchards. And a conscience once debauched by dishonest aims, will not, as I said, long scruple at unfair means.

Singularly enough, Frank was more abashed by the betrayal of the unfair means he had attempted to use, than he had yet been by any consciousness of the immorality of the practice which led to them. He could not say to Winch, "You told me I was sure of winning, and so deceived me." He only looked at him a moment, with wild distress and exasperation on his face, which quickly changed to an expression of morose and bitter despair; and dropping his head, and putting up his hands, he burst into irrepressible sobs.

"My watch! my watch that was given to me--" and which he had so ignominiously gambled away. No wonder he wept. No wonder he shook from head to foot with the passion of grief, as the conviction of his own folly and infatuation burned like intolerable fire in his soul.

"Dry up, baby!" said Jack, through his teeth. "There comes the captain."

Baby? Poor Frank! It was because he was not altogether given over to recklessness and vice that he cried at the thought of his lost watch, and of his gross ingratitude to the unknown giver. Still he felt that it was weak in him to cry. He who risks his property in order to get possession of another's should be philosopher enough to take with equanimity the loss of his own.

"Don't be childish, Frank; don't be silly!" said his friends.

And, indeed, he had the strongest reason for suppressing his sobs. Captain Edney was approaching. He was the last person to whom he would have wished to betray his guilt and misfortune. He loved and respected him; and we fear most the disapprobation of those we love and respect. Moreover, through him the heart-breaking intelligence of her son's evil courses might reach Mrs. Manly. But no doubt Frank's chief motive for concealing the cause of his grief from Captain Edney was the suspicion he still entertained, notwithstanding that officer's professed ignorance of the entire matter, that he was in reality the secret donor of the watch. So he choked back his sobs, and pretended to be assorting some pebbles, which the boys used as counters, especially when certain officers were passing, who would have reproved them if they had seen money on the board. And Captain Edney, whether he suspected any thing wrong, or not, walked on; and that restraint upon Frank's feelings was removed.

But having once controlled the outburst, he did not suffer them to get the better of him again. With a look of silent and sullen despair, he got up, and went to his bunk, and threw himself upon it, and, turning his face to the wall, refused to be comforted.

It was the wooden wall of the ship's timbers--the same he had looked at in sickness, in storms at sea, by day, and at night by the dim light of the swinging ship's lanterns; and when he lay calmly at rest, in the palm of God, amid the convulsions and dangers of the deep, and when, in the tediousness of long, dull days of waiting, he had lain there, and solaced himself with sweet thoughts of home.

But never had the ribbed ship's side appeared to him as now. And yet it was the same; but he was not the same. He was no longer the bright, hopeful, happy boy as before, but miserable, guilty, broken-hearted. And as we are, so is the world to us; the most familiar objects changing their aspect with every change in the soul. Does the sunshine, which was bright yesterday, look cold to-day? and is the sweet singing of birds suddenly become as a mockery to the ear? and the faces of friends, late so pleasant to see, have they grown strange and reproachful? and is life, before so full of hope, turned sour, and vapid, and bitter? O, my friend, I pity you; but the change, which you probably think is in the world, is only in yourself.

"The parson seems to have fallen from grace," said John Winch, sarcastically.

"Hold your tongue!" said Atwater, sternly. "You are all more to blame than he is. Of course, a boy of his age will do what he sees older ones do. It's a shame to get his money and watch away from him so."

And the honest fellow went and sat by Frank, and tried to console him.

"Go away! go away!" said Frank, in his anguish. "Don't trouble yourself about such a miserable fool as I am. I deserve it all. Let me be!"

Atwater, who was sadly deficient in what is called the gift of gab, had no soothing words at his command, full as his heart was of compassion. And after sitting some time by the unhappy boy, patting him softly on the shoulder, he arose, and went away; concluding that his absence would be a relief to one so utterly miserable.

Then Seth Tucket came, and took his place.

"That's always the way with bad luck, I swan," he said, sympathizingly. "Misfortunes always come in heaps. It never rains but it pours."

"I wish you'd let me alone!" said the boy, peevishly.

"That's fair, I swan!" said Seth. "But le' me tell ye. Ef I hed won the watch, I'd give it back to ye in a minute. But Harris is the winner, and I've only the watch now to show for my money. But here's a half dollar to begin again with. You know what luck is at cards,--how it shifts, now this way, now that, like a cow's tail in fly-time,--and I hain't the least doubt but with that half dollar you'll win back all your money, and your watch too."

The offer was kindly meant; and it encouraged a little spark of comfort in Frank's heart. To win back his losses--that was his only hope. He took the money, silently pressing Seth's hand. After that he struggled to forget his grief in thoughts of his former good fortune, which he believed would now return to him.

XVII.

IN WHICH FRANK SEES STRANGE THINGS.

In this frame of mind, Frank went on deck. He saw the old drum-major coming towards him. Being in any thing but a social mood, he tried to avoid him; and turning his back, walked away. But the veteran followed, and came to his side.

"Well, my young man," said the old cynic, exhibiting a little agitation, and speaking in a hurried tone, unusual with him, "I hear brave tidings of you."

His voice sounded harsh and sarcastic to the irritated boy; and, indeed, there was resentment enough in the veteran's breast, as well as a bitter sense of injury and disappointment, as he spoke.

Frank, nursing his sore heart, the wounds of which he could not bear to have touched by the most friendly hand, compressed his lips together, and made no reply.

"So you have been really gambling--have you?" added the old man, in tones of suppressed emotion.

"That's my business," said Frank, curtly.

He regretted the undutiful words the instant they escaped his lips. But he was too proud to ask pardon for them. As for the old man, he stood silent for a long time, looking down at the boy, who looked not up again at him. And there was a tremor in his lip, and a dilatation in his eye, which at length grew misty with a tear that gathered, but did not fall. And with a sigh, he turned away.

"Well, be it so!" Frank heard him say, as if to himself. "I thought--I hoped--but no matter."

He thought--he hoped--what? That his early faith in love and friendship, which had so long been dead, might be raised to life again by this boy, for whom he had conceived so singular a liking, and who, like all the rest, proved ungrateful and unworthy when the hour of trial came.

Alas! such is the result of our transgressions. Once having offended our own souls, we are quick to offend others. And vice makes us irritable, ungenerous, unjust. And not a crime can be committed, but its evil consequences follow, not the author of it only, but also the innocent, upon whom its blighting shadow falls.

"Frank, if you want some fun!" said an eager whisper, with a promise of mischief in it; a hand at the same time twitching the boy's coat.

It was Ned Ellis, who had come for him, and was hastening away again. Frank followed--all too ready for any enterprise that would bring the balm of forgetfulness to his hurt mind.

The boys entered the hold of the vessel, where, in the hush and obscurity, a group of their companions; stood or sat, among the barrels and boxes, still as statues, until they recognized the new comers.

"All right! nobody but us," whispered Ned, clambering over the freight, accompanied by Frank.

"Come along, and make no noise, if you value your hides," said Harris. "Here, Frank, is something to console ye for your bad luck." And he held out something in a tin cup.

"What is it?" said Frank; "water?"

"Something almost as good," said Harris. "It was water the boys came down here in search of; and they've tapped five barrels of sirup in the operation, and finally they've stuck the gimlet into a cask of--taste on't."

Frank knew what it was by the smell. It was not the first time he had smelt whiskey; or tasted it, either. But hitherto he had stopped at the taste, having nothing but his curiosity to gratify. Now, however, he bad something else to gratify--a burning thirst of the body, aggravated by his feverish excitement, and a burning thirst of the soul, which demanded stimulus of any kind whatsoever that would allay the inward torment.

And so he drank. He did not love the liquor, although the rank taste of it was ameliorated by a liberal admixture of sirup. But he felt the internal sinking and wretchedness of heart and stomach braced up and assuaged by the first draught; so he took another. And for the same reason he indulged in a third. And so it happened that his head began shortly to swim, his eyes to see double, and things to look queer to them generally. The dim hold of the vessel might have been the pit of darkness, and the obscure grinning faces of his comrades might have been those of imps therein abiding, for aught he knew to the contrary, or cared. He began to laugh.

"What's the matter, Frank?"

"Nothing," he said, thickly; "only it's so droll." And he sat down on a cask, laughing again with uncontrollable merriment--at nothing; an infallible symptom that a person is either tipsy or a fool. But Frank was not a fool. _Ergo:_ he was tipsy.

"Get him up as quick as we can, boys," he heard some one saying, "or else we can't get him up at all."

"Better leave him here till he gets over it," said another. "That'll be the best way."

"Who'd have thought a little dodger like that would upset him?" said somebody else. "By George we'll all get found out, through him."

"Whads mare?" said Frank, meaning to ask, "What is the matter?" but somehow he could not make his organs of articulation go off right. "'Zis wachecall drung?" (Is this what you call drunk?)

"Can ye walk?"--He recognized the voice of his friend Tucket.--"It's too bad to leave him here, boys. We must get him to his berth 'fore he's any worse."

"Zhue, Sef?" (Is it you, Seth?) Frank, with the help of his friend, got upon his feet. "No, I don' breeve I'm drung; I be bernaliddlewile;" meaning to say he did not believe he was intoxicated, and to express his conviction that he would be better in a little while.

Seth repeated his first inquiry.

"Izzindee! I kung wong!" (Yes, indeed, I can walk.) And Frank, as if to demonstrate the absurdity of the pretence, went stumbling loosely over the freight, saved from falling only by the assistance of his friend.

"Here's the ladder," said Tucket; "now be careful."

"'M I goung upthlarer, or am I goung downth larer?" (Was he going up the ladder or was he going down the ladder?)

Tucket proceeded to show him that the ladder was to be ascended; and, directing him how to hold on, and how to place his feet, boosted him gently, while a comrade above drew him also gently, until he was got safely out.

"I did that perrywell!" said Frank. "Now lemme hell Sef!" (Now let me help Seth.) "You're a bully fellel, Sef. I'll hellup ye!"

"Thank ye, boy," said Tucket; indulging him in the ludicrous notion that _he_ was helping _his friends_. "Much obliged."

"Nod tall!" (Not at all,) said Frank. "Bully fellels like youme mushellpitchuthth." (Must help each other.) "You unstan me, Sef?"

"Yes, I understand you. But keep quiet now, and come along with me."

So saying, the athletic soldier threw his arm affectionately around Frank, hurried him away to his bunk, and tumbled him into it without much ceremony.

Not unobserved, however. Captain Edney, who had had an anxious eye on Frank of late, saw him retire to his quarters in this rather suspicious manner.

"What's the matter with him?" he inquired of Seth.

"Nothing very serious, I believe, sir," replied Tucket, with the most perfect seriousness. "A little seasick, or sunthin of the kind. He'll git over it in a jiffy."

The waves were not running sufficiently high in the sound, however, to render the theory of seasickness very plausible; and, to satisfy his mind, Captain Edney approached Frank's bunk, putting to him the same question.

Frank replied in scarcely intelligible language, with a swimming gaze, tending to the cross-eyed, at the captain, "that there was nothing in partiggler the mare with him, but he was very busy.

"Busy?" said Captain Edney, severely; "what do you mean?"

"Not busy; but _busy, busy_!" repeated Frank.

"You mean dizzy?"

"Yes, thad's it! bizzy." He had somehow got _boozy_ and _dizzy_ mixed up.

"What makes you dizzy?"

"Boys gimme some drink, I donowat."

"The boys gave you some drink? You don't know what?--Tucket," said Captain Edney, "what's all this? Who has been getting that boy drunk?"

Seth perceived that any attempt to disguise the truth would be futile, except so far as it might be possible by ingenious subtleties to shield his companions. The alarm, be believed, must have reached them by this time, and have scattered the group at the whiskey barrel; so he answered boldly,--

"The fact, sir, is jest this. We've been about half crazy for water, as you know, for the past week or two; and men'll do almost any thing for relief, under such circumstances. It got rumored around, somehow, that there was plenty of water in the vessel, and the boys went to hunting for't, and stumbled on the quartermaster's stores, and tapped a few casks, I believe, mostly sirup, but one turned out to be whiskey. Dry as we be, it's no more'n nat'ral 't we should drink a drop, under the circumstances."

"Who tapped the casks?"