Chapter 7 WENT OUT TO DIG.

After dinner, when the game was reorganized, Bodney looked on for a few moments, still alive to the keen pleasure of winning; and just as he was about to go out, a thought struck him. What was the use of quitting now that he had luck? He had waited for it a long time, and now that it had arrived he was going to throw it away. He might just as well win a hundred and seventy as seventy. He could at least try ten dollars, and quit if he found that fortune was against him. There was one vacant seat and he took it. Ten dollars and not a cent more.

That would leave sixty to the good, enough to play on for a long time. So he bought ten dollars worth of chips and was again forgetful of the Judge, of Howard, of Florence, of the world. After a few hands he picked up a straight, seven high. He raised the opener, who promptly raised him in return, giving him the other barrel, as the saying went. Bodney raised again. He was to get action on all the money in front of him. The dealer said "cards," and the opener, tapping the table with his cards, replied, "Help him."

"Don't you want any?" Bodney eagerly asked.

"Didn't hear me call for any, did you?"

"Well, I don't want any either," said Bodney, in faltering tones. A seven high straight looked weak against a pat hand.

"Turn 'em over, boys," said the man in the look-out chair.

Bodney tremulously spread his hand. "Only seven high."

"Just top you. Mine's eight high. You had me scared, and if you'd have more money and bet me after the draw I don't think I call."

That might have been true, but it offered no consolation to Bodney. "Just my luck," he said.

"When a man gets them sort of hands beaten he's got to lose his money," said the "look-out." "There's nothing to it." A man standing near was waiting for Bodney's seat. He shoved back and was about to get up, pursuant upon the resolution which he had formed when, it occurred to him, as it always does, that with ten more he could win back the ten just lost. It was simply an accident that the fellow held over him. He would try ten more. His luck was gone, but he expected every moment to see it return. He opened a pot on aces and tens. A fool stayed on deuces, caught his third, and slaughtered him. He bought ten more. His spirits were heavy and he sighed distressfully. It was not the loss of the money; it was the harassing sense of being beaten. He opened another pot on queens up. One of the regulars raised him. He began to reason. "He would raise it on two pairs smaller than queens up. I saw him raise just now on sevens up. I'll stand it." He put in his money and drew one card. The regular drew one. The prospect was not bright, still it was not so bad. He did not help. He bet a white chip; the regular raised him three dollars and he called. Then the regular had recourse to a joke, new to Bodney, but old to the game. "I have the waiter's delight," said he.

"The what?"

"The waiter's delight," and he spread a tray full.

At ten o'clock, Bodney's capital, including the reserve fund, amounted to twenty dollars. "You beat me every time," he said, to an offensive fellow who sat opposite. It was the stranger with whom he had laughed early in the game.

"That's what I'm here for."

"That's all right. I'll get you yet."

He won several pots, and then opened a double pot for five dollars. He had a king high flush, and he intended the heavy opening to operate as a reverse bluff, to argue a small hand. The offensive fellow stayed and drew one card. He made a small full and Bodney felt his heart stop beating. At eleven o'clock he had simply the five dollar reserve fund. And he saw it melt away-saw his last chip go in. He drew, having a show for the pot, and made jacks up. The opener had queens up. Heavy of heart, Bodney went down the stairs. He cursed himself for playing after dinner. "If I only had ten dollars I might win it all back," he mused. "They can't possibly beat me all the time. I played as good cards as anybody. I wonder where I can get ten dollars. Everybody that knows me has gone home by now. Let me see. I know a fellow over at that drug store. But I've forgotten his name. Wonder if he'd let me have ten. I'll try him." He went into the drug store, saw the man standing behind the counter, walked up, reached over and shook hands with him.

"How's everything?" Bodney asked.

"How's everything?" Bodney asked.

"Oh, pretty fair. How is it with you?"

"All right. Say, old man, a college chum of mine, devilish good fellow, came in just now on a train and happened to catch me at the office-"

"Yes?" said the druggist, looking at him.

"Yes, and the fact is, he got here broke and has called on me to help him out. He's a devilish good fellow, and I don't exactly know what to do. Every one I know has gone home, and-could you let me have ten till tomorrow? You can count on it then."

"Oh, I guess so, but I'm rather short."

"I'll give it to you tomorrow without fail."

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.