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MAGAZINE SUPPLEMENT TO THE A71XNTA SUNDAY CONSTITUTION, OCTOBER 5, 1902.
y/ J ,
Red and the BlacK
Written for 7?Atr Snnn^
UST around the corner
from one of the principal
streets In the city of New
York was. a few years
ago, the rear entrance to
a very respectable bar,
which was popularly as
serted to be what the pro
prietor tried to keep it—
"a place for gentlemen to
drink.” This rear en
trance was somewhat
different from the gener-
,, , aiity of such doorways, in
mat It did not conduct directly to the
bar proper; it formed the adit of a pas
sageway which ended, with a dozen or
SO strides, at the foot of a flight of
stairs and about midway the length of
Which was another door, kept open as
a rule. It was this door that gave in
gress to the bar from the back. After
nightfall the little hall was kept well
lighted, and at irregular Intervals be
tween the hours of 9 In the evening and
3 a. m. men might be seen to open the
street door noiselessly and glide rather
than walk, under its lintel. Sometimes
it was a single man; again two would
go In together, but there were never
more than three to enter simultaneously
They came out In the same manner.
I eople who happened to be abroad after
midnight, seeing the bar to be indu
bitably closed and all apparently dark
and silent in the chambers above, and
knowing that th** main entrance to the
upper portions of the bui-ling was on
the street, wondered in a mild and pass-
fashion at the going In and coming
out. e
Should n stranger of a speculative turn
of mind-speaking with reference to
games of hazard—have dropped In at this
respectable bar, having previously been
positively Informed of the existence of
gaming rooms overhead, and Inquired of
one of the men behind the counter, for
the purpose of obtaining details, whether
he knew where an hour or two might
be whiled away In play, he would have
been answered with the most Ingenuous
and convincing negative. Had he, being
Incredulous of the man’s statement and
having the gift of close observation and
deduction—not to mention experience in
such matters—retreated from the prem
ises the way he had come and stepped
round to the rear entrance already de-
'•'au*Vd. «.nterlu2< tr»4»ea.t. n&ve ao’^QM
dressed a similar query to a stockily-
built, red-faced and repellant-featured
gentleman who Invariably up to mid
night stood at the foot of the stairs or
in propinquity to them—say Just inside
the bar, so that he might readily hear
any one approaching—he would have
been met with a severe frown and a
harsh rebuff: “No, sir—nothing of the
kind going on here!” Had he, however,
been known as a patron of the house,
his physiognomy would have -consti
tuted an open-sesame; the countersign
of his face given, he would have been
greeted urbanely by the short-statured
outpost, have ascended the stairs and
at their head passed through a door
which swung open easily upon its
hinges. There he would have found him
self In an Inclosed division of hall space
5 by 10 and facing still another door.
In which at about the height of one’s
head was what might be called, for want
of other designation, a peep-hole, with
a lid on the inside. A rap with the
knuckles would have been followed al
most instanter by the lid being slid
aside and a head presenting Itself at
the hole. Its owner was the second sen
tinel-posted by way of double precau
tion—who, if he recognized the knocker,
forthwith unbolted the door and opened
up to view a wide and lengthy hall
lighted by electricity and carpeted with
a fabric of a superior texture. Along
the stretch of hall were four or five
doors, one admitting to the main room
and the others to luxurious card apart
ments, all of which were so curtained
and blinded as to preclude a glint of
light therefrom being visible to passen
gers in the street.
Such was the condition and lay of af
fairs on the humid night in mid-Septem
ber upon whloh this story opens. The
main room, though amply illuminated,
was nebulous with cigar smoke, and its
atmosphere befouled by the drink-reeking
breath of a score of men. Some of these
high stacks of chips representing fever-
ally a goodly amount. One of the piles
he replaced on the red—somehow Ti did
not seem to fancy betting on the nym-
bers—as the man behind the table sen the
little orb spinning on Its way once more.
Red again! The young man made a hasty
mental calculation, and found that he was
$2,000 ahead on the night’s play, and hek-
the man. He looked at his watch; it
was half an hour after midnight. “I
don’t know, though,’’ he added suddenly;
“might as well play a little while longer,
I suppose.”
The determination was unfortunate—in
much less than an ihour he had lost all
he bad w.on, besides nearly half of what
he bnd in his pocket, so that he was re
-:c turned to some papers on his desk to indicate that the interview was closed
wore engaged at faro, quietly enough;
others, playing at dice, created much
noise in ut.^ring each tiine they made a
cast words and phrases seemingly in
tended as phylacteries to exercise the toss
to their advantage. But the largest num
ber were gathered about the roulette
wheel, some of the players having been
drawn thither from the other games by
the wonderful run of luck—which they
evidently thought might be contagious
and spread to themselves—on the part of
a young fellow who had entered half an
hour or so before. One of the men oper
ating the game had just given the marble
a twirl and sent it speeding round and
round the amphitheatrical device, the
players following its course with eyes
which glittered with cupidity and uncer
tainty. Presently, its motion having be
come gradually slower, it rolled into one
of the spaces with a sharp, hollow rattle.
The red won—that is, it won for some
and lost for others, according with
how the bets had been placed.
It won for Lawton Phillips—the youth
referred to—and he drew* tow T ard him two
ed only slightly double that to cover his
total losses since receiving the loan of
five thousand from his mother—a loan,
by the w r ay, which he knew r had been
possible only by a mortgage on the fam
ily homestead in Kentucky.
“I’ve been lucky tonight,” the plunger
said to himself; “I’ll try to play even
and then quit for good.”
When he had reached the point desired,
however, he was not satisfied. On and
on, long afterwards, he wagered bis
money with marvelous success. He won
whether he laid his bet on the red or
on the black. Most of the other players
had been losers, and some of them, with
no more funds, together with the mere
spectators who had been attracted by the
high play, stood about enviously gazing
upon the heavy winnings. Phillips placed
a larger wager than ever; it was swept
away. He doubled it and lost again, con
tinuing at the table, sometimes winning,
sometimes losing—more often losing now—
until his pile had been lowered to five
thousand.
“Guess I’ll cash in,” he announced to
duced to a few Ki mdred dollars. His
favorite—the red—Jiad gone steadily
against ‘him, and njw with one of those
swift impulses whch often seize upon
the gambler he showed over, on the black
this time, the remaning chips he had—
staked his all for tje black to win. His
beardless face, wit)J its intellectual feat
ures, presented a srrong contrast to that
sombre color; It was livid—blanched; and
seemed to have j'lecome sunken and
atrophied during th|3 last half hour. Now
and then he would pass his hand upward
to push back the thick brown hair which
the perspiration hud matted upon his
forehead, and he poked as he might
have looked had he .tist been sentenced to
the gibbet. The bettings of his heart
felt to him as though they were the pulsa
tions of some migh v engine. But. like
all gamblers, he ha hope. He thought.
too, of that mother
into which he had f.
perate strait he eve
that h$ might not id
ad sister who trust
ed him and knew nothing of the w*ays
Men, and in his des-
breathed a prayer
no this time; that he
might again win bact the amount he hail
twice lost, when he would make one su
preme effort to free himself from the
gorgon whose vicelike tentacles had him
In a grip of steel.
The night was close and heavy, and
the impassive automaton behind the ta
ble mopped his sleepy face with a varie
gated silk handkerchief, then, nonchalant
ly starting . the ball upon its circuit,
glanced about him for an instant in a
mood of curiosity to see what w*as going
on at the other tables. When the little
sphere appeared to *tire and commenced
to wane In its mad run he returned his
attention to it. As for Phillips, he had
never averted his eyes from its orbit, and
the restless, unsteady hands betrayed the
apprehensions which filled his mind.
Again the sharp, hollow* rattle! It was
not the first time that it had fallen upon
ears like a knell of doom. Phillips saw
where the marble had lodged—it rested
in a squares of crimson—and the pallor
of his face deepened to absolute blood
lessness. Although clutching the table
for support, he strove to seem undis
mayed; and, to dissemble the keen chag
rin, the staggering shock that came to
him when he realized what had happened
—that he had lost everything—he at
tempted a smile. Futile, puerile pretence
—as if in that dlstortive. sardonic grim
ace the older gamesters could not see an
other case of the end of ^»^*‘ng and
the beginning of the harvest of misery
and remorse! The fact was that Phil
lips was crushed; his brain felt benumbed
—paralyzed; it seemed to go round and
round even as the little ball itself. For
a time his tongue .clove to the roof of
his dry mouth, and his articulation was
difficult -as, turning from the table, he
remarked huskily to the croupier, “Well,
Til quit for this time—good night!” He
w*as aware that he had spoken, but what
he hardly knew; there was a choking
sensation in his throat and he felt that
he must suffocate if he did not at once
leave the atmosphere that had suddenly .
become unendurable. He walked to the
door like a man in a trance—and slowly,
as his limbs dragged heavily, seeming to *
refuse their office—and was ushered out
by the attendant.
“Jim” Gardiner, the proprietor of the
establishment, had stopped at the table
to watch operations for a while just be
fore RfcUUps hfs last bet. The lat
ter frJKVtost Miuej; in the hou?je before—
i* haps
m° rf Y ai A Gardiner knew th*\t iie had
gambled in other places about town.
From his intensely agitated appearance
and demeanor after that last spin of the
marble Gardiner divined, like ‘ the rest,
that he had reached the end. Paradoxi
cally enough, he felt sorry for the boy—
Phillips was hardly more than that, for
he had not gone far into his twenties.
Not knowing what to do, the now pen
niless youth tramped aimlessly about
the streets, made wet and dismal by a
misty drizzle that comported in its dis-
spiriting 'tendencies ryith his own de
pressed mood. Now ’uiid then a gay cou
ple. fresh from the pleasures of a late
refection, would emerge from some res
taurant and haU a conveyance; or a
private equipage would roll by, returning
with Its load of prosperous and settled
humanity from a prolonged social func
tion' to a bed of careless and undisturbed
repose. But these things the wanderer
saw not. A party of roystering college
students on a lark approached. They
were gibbering loquaciously and when
abreast of Phillips one of them uninten
tional** lurched heavily against him and
J then maudlinly begged pardon betfcreen
hiccoughs. The incident aroused him
from his despondent abstraction. He
suddenly turned round as a thought
struck him, b^t at the same time he felt
the burning blood of shame Infiltrate his
face—his lofty pride recoiled at the Idea
of asking Gardiner for the return of a
part of hi? losses as a loan, and he stood
stock still, Irresolute.
“Yes, I will do it,” he said, half aloud,
after some minutes of deliberation. “It’s
the only chance I have; it may save me.
CHARLES BLANTON ROBERTS.
Mr. Roberts is a native of Knoxville,
Tenn., 'but has lived In many southern
cities. Although “The Red and ths
Black” is his most pretentious work,
he has contributed a great many
poems and short stories to current
periodicals. He has published in The
Sunny South three stories which
gained many friends for him. They
are: “The Case of ‘Bull-Back Jones.’’
“Cracker Dunn’s Alibi” and “The
Destruction of Borajah Homajil.”
for if T get the money I’ll quit forever.’’
But he well* knew that it was another
Instance*of the drowning man clutching
at a straw, for he told himself the prob
abilities were that the gambler would
laugh in his face at such a proposal. He
retraced his steps and, arriving at the
temple of chance, announced that he
wanted to see Gardiner. The card games
had ceased, the roulette table had been
abandoned, and the rooms which two
hours before harl witnessed a pandemon
ium of nervous men flushed with the ex
citement of play were on the point of
being vacated by the employees of the
establishment—the only ones left. The
master gambler, who happened to be^till
in his office—a
had only a
jPhillina lr ^
■ i, a.':
ini Sux px 4»eu
’ pasting his animus, he motioned the
caller to a seat and waited for him to
speak.
“I’ve come to make what may strike
you as an unusual proposition,” began
the young man, “but I’ve always under
stood you to be honest and fair, and I
know you have plenty of money and
wouldn’t miss what I shall ask.”
His breath coming In quick gasps, he
talked with the rapidity peculiar to his
extremely nervous state.
“1 want to know lr you won’t lend me
$1,000 of the $5,000 I’ve lost!”
His auditor evinced no astonishment.
“My. Phillips, we don’t do business that
way. It’s—”
“But, listen,” the young fellow argued;
“I don’t ask you to give it to me—1 mere
ly want you to lend it, and 1’il get Indors
ers to vouch that it will be paid back. I
don’t intend to ever gamble again. This
is the last time. Let me have what 1 ask
and I’ll take it—it will be enough to start
* 1th—and go in business as 1 intended
when I first came here.” '
“My dear sir,” said Gardiner, not un
kindly, “we ha\*e cases like yours often,
and you can appreciate tnat we couldn't
afford to comply with the requests made
upon us. We crave no favors wnen we
lose; and we give none, except some
times In the way of pocket money Tor the
time being to a man wb Is absolutely
‘broke.’ If $25 will do you any good, it’s
yours.”
“No—no! That wouldn’t help me any.
Let me tell you!” desperately cried the
youth, in a voice whose hoarseness re-
CONTINUED ON LAST PAGE.
^ Champion ChecRer Player of AmeriKy
ly J A IVIES WHITCOMB RILEY
F course as fur as checker-
playin’s concerned, you
can’t jest adzackly claim
'at lots makes fortunes
and lots gits bu’sted at it
—but still, it's on’v simple
jestice to acknowledge
'at there’re absolute p’ints
In the game ’at takes
scientific principles to Ag
ger out, and a mighty
level-headed feller to dim-
onstrate, don’t you under
stand!
Checkers Is a’ old enough game, ef age
is any rickommendation; and it’s a’ evi
dent fact. too. ’at “the tooth of time.”
as the feller says. whi< h fer the last six
thousand years has gained some reputa
tion for a-eatin’ up things in giner’l,
don’t ’pear to ’a' gnawed much of a
hole in Checkers—jedgln’ from the check
er board of today and the ones ’at they’re
uccasionally shovellin’ out at Pomp’y-i,
er whatever its name is. Turned up a
checker board there not long ago. I wuz
reddin' ’bout, ’at still had the spots on—
as plain and fresh as the modern white
pine board o’ our’n, squared off with pen-
cli marks and pokerberry Juice. These Is
facts ’at history herself has dug out. and
of course it ain't fer me ner you to turn
our nose up at Checkers, whuther we
ever tamper with the fool game er not.
Fur’s that's concerned. I don't p’tend to
be no checker player myse’f—but I
know’d a feller onc’t ’at could play, and
sorto’ made a business of it; and that
man. in my opinion, was a geenvus!
Name wuz Wesley Cotterl—John Wesley
Cotterl—Jest plain Wes, as us feilers
round the Shoe Shop ust to call him; ust
to alius make the Shoe Shop his head
quarters-like; and, rain er shine, wet er
dry. you’d alius find Wes on hands, ready
to bai.ter some feller fer a game, er jest
a-settln’ humped up there over the check
er board all alone, a-cipher’n’ out some
new move er ’nuther, and whistlin’ low
and solem’ to hirse’f-like and a-payin’
no attention to nobody.
And I’ll tell you, Wes Cotterl wuz no
man’s fool, as sly as you keep it! He
wuz a deep thinker, Wes wuz; and ef
he’d ’a’ jest turned that mind o' his loose
on preachin’, fer instance, and the ’ter-
peration o' the Bible, don’t you know,
Wes ’ud ’a’ worked p’ints out o’ there ’at
no livin’ expounderers ever got in gun
shot of!
But Wes he didn’t ’pear to be cut out
fer nothin’ much but jest Checker-playin’.
Oh. of course, he could knock round his
own woodpile some, and garden a little,
more er less; and the neighbors ust to
find Wes purty handy ’bout trimmin*
fruit trees, you understand, and work-
in’ In among the worms and catterplllers
in the vines and shrubbery, and the like.
And handlin’ bees!—They wuzn't no man
under the heavens 'at knowed more ’bout
handlin' bees’n Wes Cotterl!—“Settlin' ”
the blame' things when they wuz a-
swarmin*; and |-robbin’ hives, and all
sich fool lesks. W’y, I’ve saw Wes Cot
terl, 'fore now. when a swarm of bees
’ud settle in a’ orchard—like they will
sometimes, you know—I’ve saw Wes Cot
terl jest roll up his shirt sleeves and bend
down a’ apple tree limb ’at wuz jest kiv-
vered with the pesky things, and scrape
’em back into the hive with his naked
hands, bv the quart and gallon, and never
git a scratch!. You couldn’t hire a bee
to sting Wes Cotterl! But lazy! I think
that man had railly ort to ’a’ been a’
Injun! He wuz the fust and on’y man
’at ever I laid eyes on ’at wuz too lazy
to drap a checker man to p’int out the
right road fer a feller ’at ast him onc't
the way to Burke’s Mill; and Wes, ’ithout
ever a-liftin’ eye er finger, jest sorto*
crooked out that mouth o’ his’n in the
direction the feller wanted, and says;
“H-yonder!” and went on with his whist
lin’. But all this hain’t Checkers, and
that’s what I started out to tell ye.
Wes had a way o’ jest natchurly a-
cleanin’ out anybody and ever’body ’at
’ud he’p hold up a checker board! Wes
wuzn’t what you’d call a lively player
at all, ner a competiter ’at talked much
’crost the board er made much furse over
a game whilse he wuz a-playin’. He had
his faults, o’ course, and would* take
back moves ’casion'ly, er inch up on you
ef you didn’t watch him, mebbv. But,
as a rule, Wes had the insight to grasp
the idy of whoever wuz a-playin* ag'in’
him. and his style o’ game, you under
stand. and wuz on the lookout continual;
and under sich circumstances could play
as honest a game o’ Checkers as the
babe unborn.
One thing in Wes's favor alius wut the
feller’s temper. Nothin’ peared to ag-
gervate Wes, and nothin’ on earth could
break his slow and lazy way o* takir,’ his
own time fer ever’thing. You jest couldnt
crowd Wes er git him rattled anyway.
Jest ’peared to have one fixed principle,
and that wuz to take plenty o’ time,
and never make no move 'ithout a-
ciphern’n’ ahead on the prob’ble conse
quences, don’t you understand! * 3e shore
you’re right.’’ Wes ’ud say. a iettin’ up
fer a second on that low an<j sorry-
like little wind-through-the-keyhoie whis
tle o’ his, and a-nosh’ out a place whur
he con’d swap cne man fer two.—“Bo
shore you’re right’’- and somep’n’ af
ter this style wuz Wr’s way: “Be shore
you’re right”
bar of “Barbara
other long. _
and by the time the filer ’ud git through
tyle wuz Wrs way: “Be shore
ht“—(whistlbg a long, lonesome
arbara Allen—“and then”—(an-
g. retarded |ar)—“go ahead!’’—
w*ith his whistlin’, ar
startin’ in agin, he’d
ahead to your one.
go on with his whist l* ’sef nothin’ bad
happened, and mebby
and a-callin’ him all
ish, ornry names ’at y
to.
But Wes’s good na
a-jest a-rearin’
he mean, outland-
u could lay tongue
the thing ’at ho ped h n out as much as
a-stoppin’ and a-
about three men
nd then he’d jest
ire. I recon, was
''e.ler had.
And
i *me long run!--I
ag’inst him! It
time with Wes o’
f ’em. Lots o’
», and right at
‘ him trouble.—
mind ve^in the
p n. I recon. had
.nees with Wes
checker-board
any other p’ints th
Wes ’ud ali
don’t keer who ’play
was on’y a question o
waxin’ in to the bes
players has tackled
the start ud mebby
but in the long run.
long run, no mortal
any business o* rubbi
Cotterl un ler r.)
in all this v ale o’ tec
I mind onc’t th eoftc alcng a high-
toned feller from in .* tund InTnop’lus
somers.—W iz a lawyer , r some p’fession-
al kind o’ Iran. Had a| ig yaller, luther-
kiwered bi >k under hi*4*m, and a launch
o’ suppeeni?s stickin’ T;t o’ his bruast-
pocket. Mighty sli^kj : kin’ feller he
w*uz: woi 1 - a stove-pijl;' hat. sorto’ set
’way back .n his head—to show off his
Giner’l Je kson forr’ed^ on’t you know!
Well-sir, Mis feller stUck the place, on
some business er other^.and then missed
j:
the hack *at ort to *a* tuk him out o*
here sooner’n It did take him out!—And
whilse he w*uz a-loaf'.n’ round, sorto’ lone
some—like a feller alius is in a strange
place, you know—he-kindo’ drapped in on
our crowd at the Shoe-Shop, ostenchably
to git a boot-strop stitched on, but I
know*ed the minute he set foot in the dooz,
’at that feller w*anted comp’ny wuss’n
cobblin’.
Well, as good luck would have it, there
set Wes. as usual, with the checker-board
in his lap, a-playin’ all by hisse’f, and
a-whistlin’ so low and solem’-like and
sad it railly made the crowd seem like
a religious getherin’ o’ some kind er
other, we wuz all so quiet and still-like,
as the man come in.
Well, the stranger stated his business,
set down, tuk off his boot, and set there
nussin’ hi 5 foot and talkin’ weather fer
ten minutes. I recon, ’fore he ever ’peared
to notice Wes at all. We wuz all back’ard
anyhow, ’bout talkin’ much; besides, we
knowed, long afore he come in. all r^>ut
how hot the weather wuz, and the pore
chance there wuz o’ rain, and all that;
and so the subject had purty well died
out. when jest then the feller’s eyes
struck Wes and the checker-board.—and
I’ll never fergit the warm, salvation
smile ’at flashed over him ’at the promis
in’ discover**. “What!” says he, a-grin-
nin’ like a’ angel and a-edgin* his cheer
to’rds Wes, “have we a checker-board
and checkers here?”
“We hew” says I, knowin’ ’at Wes
wouldn't let go ’o that whistle long
enough to answer—more’n to rnebby nod
his head.
“And who is your best player?” says the
feller, kindo’ pitiful-like, with another
inquirin' look at Wes.
"Him,” says I, a-pokin’ Wes with a
peg-float. But Wes on’y spit kindo’ ab
sent-like, and went on with his whislln*.
“Much of a player, Is he?” says the fel
ler, with a sorto’ doubtful smile at Wes
ag’in.
“Plays a purty good hick’ry,” says I,
a-pokin’ Wes ag’in. “Wes,” says I.
“here's a gentleman ’at *ud mebby like
to take a hand with you there, and give
you a few idys,” says I.
“Yes.” says the stranger, eager-like,
a-slttln’ his plug-hat keerful’ up in the
emptv shelvin’, and a-rubbin’ his hands
and smilin’ as confident-like as old Hovte
hlsse’f.—“Yes. indeed, I’d be glad to give
the gentleman’’ (meanin’ Wes) “a’ idy er
two about Checkers—ef he’d jest as lief.—
’cause I re^on ef there’re any one thing
’at I do know more about ’an another,
it’s Checkers,” says he; “and there’re no
game ’at delights me more—pervidin*, o'
course, I find a competiter ’at kin make
It anyways interestin’.”
“Got much of a rickord on Checkers?”
says I.
“Well,” says the feller. “I don’t like to
brag, but I’ve never ben boat—in any
legitimut contest,” says he, “and I’ve
played more’n one o’ them.” he says,
“here and there round the country. Of
course, your friend here.” he went on.
smilin’ sociable at Wes. “he’ll take it all
in good part ef I should happen to lead
him a little—jest as I’d do;’’ he says, “ef
it wuz possible fer him to lead me.”
“Wes ” says I, “has warmed the wax
some mighty good checker-
sa>s I, as he ' squared
says I, “has warmed the
the veers of some mighty
yeers of
players.”
“Wes.”
wax in
CONTINUED ON FOURTH PAGE.
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INSTINCT HUNT