A Nice Little Game
After a good deal of fluent talk, and much dexterous handling of the cards, in a way that seemed clear enough to everybody, and that showed that everybody’s guess was right as to the place of the ace, the near-sighted gentleman, who had drunk with Norman, offered to bet five dollars.
“Five dollars!” returned Parkins, laughing in derision, “five dollars! Do you think I’m a gambler? I don’t want any gentleman’s money. I’ve got all the money I need. However, if you would like to bet the wine with me, I am agreed.”
The near-sighted gentleman declined to wager anything but just the five dollars, and Parkins spurned his proposition with the scorn of a gentleman who would on no account bet a cent of money. But he grew excited, and bantered the whole crowd. Was there no gentleman in the crowd who would lay a wager of wine for the company on this interesting little trick? It was strange to him that no gentleman had spirit enough to make the bet. But no gentleman had spirit enough to bet the wine. Evidently there were no gentlemen in the company.
However, the near-sighted man with the white hat adorned with crape now proposed in a crusty tone to bet ten dollars that he could lift the ace. He even took out a ten-dollar bill, and, after examining it, in holding it close to his nose as a penurious man might, extended his hand with, “If you’re in earnest, let’s know it. I’ll bet you ten.”
At this Parkins grew furious. He had never been so persistently badgered in all his life. He’d have the gentleman know that he was not a gambler. He had all the money he wanted, and as for betting ten dollars, he shouldn’t think of it. But now that the gentleman—he said gentleman with an emphasis—now that the gentleman seemed determined to bet money, he would show him that he was not to be backed down. If the young man would like to wager a hundred dollars, he would cheerfully bet with him. If the gentleman did not feel able to bet a hundred dollars, he hoped he would not say any more about it. He hadn’t intended to bet money at all. But he wouldn’t bet less than a hundred dollars with anybody. A man who couldn’t afford to lose a hundred dollars, ought not to bet.
“Who is this fellow in the white hat with spectacles?” August asked of the mud-clerk.
“That is Smith, Parkins’s partner. He is only splurging round to start up the greenies.” And the mud-clerk spoke with an indifference and yet a sort of dilettante interest in the game that shocked his friend, the striker.
“Why don’t they set these blacklegs ashore?” said August, whose love of justice was strong.
“You tell,” drawled the mud-clerk. “The first clerk’s tried it, but the old man protects ’em, and” (in a whisper) “get’s his share, I guess. He can set them off whenever he wants to.” (I must explain that there is only one “old man” on a steamboat—that is, the captain.)
By this time Parkins had turned and thrown his cards so that everybody knew or thought he knew where the ace was. Smith, the man with the white hat, now rose five dollars more and offered to bet fifteen. But Parkins was more indignant than ever. He told Smith to go away. He thrust his hand into his pocket and drew out a handful of twenty-dollar gold-pieces. “If any gentleman wants to bet a hundred dollars, let him come on. A man who couldn’t lose a hundred would better keep still.”
Smith now made a big jump. He’d go fifty. Parkins wouldn’t listen to fifty. He had said that he wouldn’t bet less than a hundred, and he wouldn’t. He now pulled out handful after handful of gold, and piled the double-eagles up like a fortification in front of him, while the crowd surged with excitement.
At last Mr. Smith, the near-sighted gentleman in spectacles, the gentleman who wore black crape on a white hat, concluded to bet a hundred dollars. He took out his little porte-monnaie and lifted thence a hundred-dollar bill.
“Well,” said he angrily, “I’ll bet you a hundred.” And he laid down the bill. Parkins piled five twenty-dollar gold-pieces atop it. Each man felt that he could lift the ace in a moment. That card at the dealer’s right was certainly the ace. Norman was sure of it. He wished it had been his wager instead of Smith’s. But Parkins stopped Smith a moment.
“Now, young man,” he said, “if you don’t feel perfectly able to lose that hundred dollars, you’d better take it back.”
“I am just as able to lose it as you are,” said Smith snappishly, and to everybody’s disappointment he lifted not the card everybody had fixed on, but the middle one, and so lost his money.
“Why didn’t you take the other?” said Norman boastfully. “I knew it was the ace.”
“Why didn’t you bet, then?” said Smith, grinning a little. Norman wished he had. But he had not a hundred dollars of his own, and he had scruples—faint, and yet scruples, or rather alarms—at the thought of risking his employer’s money on a wager. While he was weighing motive against motive, Smith bet again, and again, to Norman’s vexation, selected a card that was so obviously wrong that Norman thought it a pity that so near-sighted a man should bet and lose. He wished he had a hundred dollars of his own and—There, Smith was betting again. This time he consulted Norman before making his selection, and of course turned up the right card, remarking that he wished his eyes were so keen! He would win a thousand dollars before bed-time if his eyes were so good! Then he took Norman into partnership, and Norman found himself suddenly in possession of fifty dollars, gotten without trouble. This turned his brain. Nothing is so intoxicating to a weak man as money acquired without toil. So Norman continued to bet, sometimes independently, sometimes in partnership with, the gentlemanly Smith. He was borne on by the excitement of varying fortune, a varying fortune absolutely under control of the dealer, whose sleight-of-hand was perfect. And the varying fortune had an unvarying tendency in the long run—to put three stakes out Of five into the pockets of the gamblers, who found the little game very interesting amusement for gentlemen.