Chapter 6 THE WEXTON CLUB.

When Goyle and Bodney left the house they went to a place known as the Wexton Club. This institution was not incorporated under the laws of the state, but its affairs were conducted under a law, the law that governs the game of poker.

The public dinner pail gaming house, the pickpocket of the laborer, had been closed; the grave-countenanced faro dealer and the sad-eyed man who turned the roulette wheel; the hoarse-voiced "hazard" operator, and the nimble and enterprising thief of the "stud poker" game, now thrown out of visible employment, stood at the mouth of the alley waiting for "good times" to return. "Bucket-shops" broke out in new places, once in a while, and there was the occasional raid of a poolroom, but it was agreed that public gambling was a thing of the rough and disgraceful past. But the poker clubs! They were not traps set for the man in overalls. His pennies and dimes were not solicited. Of course, if he saved up capital to the amount of five dollars, and came with a reasonable appearance of respectability, he could get into the game, but he was not wanted. The board of trade men, the race horse man, the merchant, doctor, lawyer, and particularly the fool with money, furnished the life blood of the enterprise. Shrewd gamblers risked their money and pronounced the game "straight." And it was "straight." The "house" could not afford to permit any "crooked" work. Its success, the "rake off," depended upon its own fairness to everyone playing in the game. But the "sucker" does not need to be cheated to lose. His own impulses will sooner or later rob him of all the money he can borrow, beg or steal. The man who plays for recreation wants it, not after a long season of waiting for a good hand, but at once; and putting in his money he draws to "short" pairs or to every four straight or four flush. He may have an encouraging spurt; he may make a hardened player wince and swear under his breath or even above it, but in the end, and it comes on apace, he shoves it back, broke, and the old-timer rakes in the money. Within recent years several fine young fellows of good standing and of bright prospects have looked for diversion in poker and have found state's prison. The road to the penitentiary is paved with four flushes.

At the Wexton, Goyle had introduced Bodney as his friend, Mr. Ramage, and out of that familiarity which comes of constantly gazing into a man's countenance, in the effort to determine what he holds in his hand, they shortened his name to Ram. The young lawyer had played with friends, and had won, not because his friends were kind to him, but because they were as experimental in drawing cards as himself, and because they were possessed of equally as much curiosity. The "gentleman's game" is a trap door, and it is easy enough to fall from "Billy" and "George" and "Tom," down into a hell on earth. This is not a tirade against gambling, for the horrors of that vice have engaged the ablest of pens, but to give life in poker clubs as it really exists, the attractive with the distressful. Indeed, the distress is not seen in the club. The victim gets up with a jocular remark, and silently goes out, wishing that he were dead, and resolving deep within his disconsolate heart that he will never enter the place again. Then his heart lightens. He is saved. He has lost money that he could not afford to lose, the very bread of his family; but he will do so no more. He has strength of purpose, an object in life, a position to maintain. He is now grateful to himself for his own strength of will. The next morning he goes dull and heavy to his business. He shudders as he enumerates the amount of money that he has lost within the past few weeks; counts it all up, and then, with a sickening pang, recurs a forgotten sum, borrowed from a friend and not yet returned, though he had promised to "hand" it back the next day. The details of his business are wearisome. At noon he goes out. At the "Club" they serve a meal, better than he can get at a restaurant. He will go there, but not to play. He plays, to get even-will try it once more; and at evening he sends a message to his wife-"detained on important business." He has several checks, and one by one they melt away in the pot. He is broke. He wants more chips. He has money in the bank, he declares; but the man at the desk is sorry to inform him that it is a rule of the "house" not to take personal checks. He is angry, of course. He wants to know why a check which he offered earlier in the evening was accepted, and is told that the other check was different, that it was signed by a name better known than his. Then he tries to borrow from the men who have won his money; he knows them well, for he has played with them day after day. They have laughed at his jokes, when with the fool's luck he has drawn to "short" pairs and won. They have no money to lend-would really like to accommodate him, but have obligations to meet. And so he goes heavily down the stairs again, with murder in his heart. But his heart lightens after a time. He will never, so help him God, play again. But he does. Ah, it is less bad to be bitten by a mad dog.

Goyle was but an indifferent player. He well knew the value of a hand, but was too impatient to wait. But no despair fell upon him when he lost. He did not look forward to a time when circumstances or the force of his own resolution might set him beyond the temptations of the game, but to the time when luck might give him enough money to put him in the game. Bodney, however, was bound soul and body. He could hardly think of anything else. Dozing to sleep he saw aces and kings; asleep, he drew to flushes and straights. In his sleep he might win, but only in his sleep. His soul seemed to have been created for this one debasing passion. It was his first, for though impressionable, no enthusiasm had ever mastered him, and love had never set his heart aflame. But now he was an embodiment of raging poker, not for gain, but for the thrill, the drunkenness of playing. His bank account, never large, was gone. For himself and for Goyle he had taken small sums of money from the Judge's safe, and had lived in the terror of being confronted with the theft. And he actually believed that had the old man accused him or even strongly suspected him he would have killed himself. Suspicion was now averted, but at the cost of what infamy! He could face Howard; he could endure with a show of self-control the agonized countenance of the old man; but remorse gnawed him like a rat. It was not to be supposed that Florence would be enlightened as to the coolness which, of necessity, must fall between Howard and the Judge, but it could not be otherwise than a grief to her. He could look forward and see the wonder in her eyes, and then the sorrow that must come to her. It is one of the misfortunes of a weak man to have a strong conscience, a conscience with not enough of forecast to prevent a crime, but one which agonizes when a crime has been committed. His only solace was to play. Then his mind was chained to the game, the dealing of the cards, the scanning of his hand, to the thrill of winning, the dull oppression of losing. Upon entering the club he had been surprised to see so many old and venerable looking men sitting about the tables. One had been a prominent lawyer; another, a doctor, had turned from a fine practice to waste his substance and the remainder of his days. There was good humor, an occasional story of brightness and color, but upon the whole the place was sad, everyone seeming to recognize that he was a hopeless slave. The scholar turned poker-player, thinks and talks poker. He forgets his grammar, and puts everything in the present tense. "How did you come out last night?" someone asks, and he answers, "I lose." Many of those men would not have gone to a "regular" gaming house; they would not have played faro or roulette, but the blight of poker fell upon them, to weaken them morally, to make them liars. Sometimes an old fellow, getting up broke, would turn moralist. One said to Bodney: "The chips you see on the table don't belong to anyone. You may go so far as to cash them and put the money into your pocket, but it isn't yours. You may spend it, but you will borrow or steal to make it good to the game." Among those daily associates engaged in the enterprise of "wolfing" one another there was a fine shade of courtesy. No one can be politer or more genial than a winner, and a loser is expected to shove over the pot which he has just lost, in case the winner cannot reach it. In return for this the loser is permitted to swear at his victor, but etiquette demands that it shall be done in a mumble, as if he were talking to himself. The winner can stand a great deal of abuse. In the game there were usually two or more players put in by the "house," cool fellows, educated to know the value of a hand or the advantage of a position. They were the "regulars," the others the militia. The dash and the fire of the militiaman sometimes overrode the regular, but there was no question as to the ultimate result. The regular knew when to put down a bad hand; he could be "bluffed" by the militiaman. But he could afford to wait; he was paid to sit there; it was his business. Bodney, however, could not wait. With him, impulsive hope was leaping from deal to deal, from card to card, from spot to spot.

When Goyle and Bodney arrived the members of this family of interchangeable robbery were ranged at a long table in the dining room, eating in hurried silence or talking about the game. Occasionally someone would venture an opinion of a race horse or a prize fighter, but for the most part the meal was solemn and dull. Laughter was not unknown, but it was short, like a bark. This does not mean that there was a want of fellowship in the club, but eating was looked upon as a necessary interruption.

"You are just in time," said the proprietor of the house, not a bad fellow, a business man, accommodating as far as he could be, yielding sometimes to the almost tearful importunity of a fool to the extent of lending him money never to be returned. "Sit down. Fine weather we're having."

"A champagne day," said Goyle, sitting down and spreading a napkin across his knees. "How's the game going?"

"Oh, fairly well. We've got a good run of customers. They know that they are perfectly safe here."

"What's become of that fellow they called Shad?" asked a man at the end of the table.

"Oh, that fellow from Kansas City? He's gone. I didn't want him. I think he'd snatch a card."

Bodney was silent. He could hear the rat gnawing at his conscience, and he yearned for the moral oblivion of the game. Leaving Goyle at the table, he arose, and walked up and down, then went into the room where the game was forming. He had but fifteen dollars, but with this amount he felt that he could win. He bought ten dollars worth of chips, musing upon the fact that he had a reserve fund of five dollars. The game was all jackpots, twenty-five cent ante, and three dollar limit, except when the pot was doubled, and then the limit was five dollars. While a man at his side was shuffling a deck of new cards, Bodney began to meditate upon the policy which he intended to pursue. He would not draw to a flush or straight except when there were several "stayers," for then the percentage would warrant the risk. He would not draw to a pair below kings, nor open on jacks next to the dealer. If the pot were opened and came around to him, even without a raise, he would not stay on a pair of queens. If he opened on one pair and was raised, he would lie down. He would not stand a raise under kings up. Goyle came in, bought twenty dollars worth of chips, and took a seat on the opposite side of the table; and the game proceeded, with seven players. Bodney opened on a pair of kings. All passed around to Goyle. He looked at his hand a moment, and said: "Only one in? Well, I've got to stay. Give me that one," he said to the dealer, meaning that he wanted one card. "Got two little pairs here, and I won't raise you unless I help." Bodney drew three cards and did not help his kings. He bet a white chip. "Now I'll go down and look," said Goyle. "Bet you three dollars," he added. Bodney was smoking. He puffed at his cigar. "I don't know about that," he said. "What do you want to raise me for?"

"Got to play my hand, haven't I?" Goyle replied.

Bodney put his cigar on the table and thought. "Well, you've got 'em or you haven't. I'll call you." He threw in three blue chips, and Goyle spread a flush. "Thought you said you had two little pairs," said Bodney, as Goyle raked in the pot.

"I hadn't looked at my hand very close."

"You knew what you had all the time. Stayed on a four flush with only one man in. Of course you can always make it against me."

The deal went round and round, and occasionally Bodney won a pot, once a large one, and now as he stacked up his chips he felt at peace with the world. He laughed and joked with a man whom he had never met before; he did not see how he could lose. He threw off the rigor of his resolution, and drew to a pair of sixes, caught the third, raised the opener three dollars, and won the pot against aces up. Then his senses floated in a limpid pool of delight. Goyle opened a pot. Bodney raised him, having kings up. "I've got to stay," said Goyle. "Give me one card." Bodney drew one and made a king full. His heart leaped with joy. "What do you do?" he asked.

"Bet three dollars," said Goyle, putting in the chips, and Bodney was almost smothered in exultation.

"I raise you three."

"Raise you three," said Goyle.

"Are you as strong as that?" Bodney remarked, striving to hide the delight that was shooting through him. "Well, I'll have to raise you three."

Goyle began to study. "Well, if you can beat a jack full, take the money." He put in his three dollars. "King full," said Bodney, and Goyle threw down his cards with an oath. "Of course you couldn't make that against anybody but me. It's what a man gets for not playing his hand before the draw. I ought to have raised you back. Had three jacks all the time. But I didn't want to beat you."

"Looked like it when you made that flush."

"That's ancient history."

Bodney did not reply. He was behind a bulwark of chips, and his heart beat high. He began to tell a story. The winners were interested; the losers did not hear it. In the midst of the story, just below the climax, he had a hand beaten for six dollars, and the story, thus broken, fell into silence.

"What was that story you were going to tell?"

"It didn't amount to anything," said Bodney, but not long afterward he won a ten dollar pot, found the fragments of the story, lying at the bottom of silence, and gave them voice. The winners laughed; the losers did not hear it.

A minute legitimately employed may seem an hour; an hour at a poker table may be but a minute.

Someone asked the time. Bodney looked at his watch, and said that it was five o'clock. He was nearly seventy dollars ahead, with the reserve fund still in his pocket, and was resolved to quit very soon. Just then Goyle emerged from a contest, broke. "Let me take ten," said he. Bodney hesitated a moment. "Say, I've got to pay for-"

"Oh, I'll give it to you tomorrow. Let me take ten."

He passed over the chips, but with a feeling of depression. "I may be broke pretty soon," said he. "And I can't let you have any more."

"Broke pretty soon! Why, you're even on your whole life. You got all my money."

"I haven't won as much from you as you have from me."

"That's all right. My day may come."

Bodney was determined to play no longer than dinner time. Then he would cash in. Goyle's stack grew to the amount of thirty dollars. Bodney was glad to see it grow; ten dollars of it belonged to him. He did not care for ten dollars; he had loaned Goyle ten times ten, and did not expect to recover the sum, but chips were different, and especially now that they fed his passion and dulled his conscience. Goyle got up. "Let me have that ten till tomorrow," said he, and Bodney did not say anything, but his spirits felt a sudden weight. He was pleased, however, when Goyle went out, for there were to be no more raids upon his stack. Dinner was announced. He motioned to an attendant upon the game, and his chips were taken over to the desk.

"Going to quit us?" a man asked.

"Yes. This is the first time I've won," he added, by way of apology.

"Have dinner before you go," said the proprietor, coming forward.

"I don't know that I've got the time."

"Just as well. You've got to eat anyway."

He went out to dinner, and was permitted to be vivacious. An old fellow, sitting on his right, remarked: "I'm glad to see you win." Others said that they were glad to see him win. It was surely a very genial company.