The “second bell” had rung and yet I had not responded to the clamoring call to breakfast. An impatient rap at my door.

“Papa, papa,” from my oldest daughter. “There’s a gentleman waiting to see you.”

“Yes, yes, I am coming. I am not one of the seven sleepers.”

Who could it be? The early morning hour is sacred to beggars having elaborate and well-worn letters of introduction, some of which have seen service so long that the paper upon which they are written holds together as poorly as the clumsy tales of their bearers. Sometimes calls for funeral services come in the dewy morning, and oftener bashful young gentlemen stop in buggies and say with nervous energy, but trembling lips, “Dr. Snyder, I would like—we would like to have you do a little job for me—I mean for us. We’re going to get married to-morrow night and we’d like to have you tie the knot. We often come to hear you preach on Sunday evenings.” And then I recognize the sterner half of a handsome young couple who come rather late to church and sit on the back seat and keep up a religious conversation during the whole service.

All this time I am hurrying into my morning gown. It is a little torn in the sleeve, by the way, and when I am in haste I always strike the wrong side of the sleeve-lining. Down stairs I go, and in the hall sits a man who has none of the blushing uneasiness of the prospective bridegroom. My hand is cordially grasped in a palm that seems to bear enthusiastic honesty and simple affection in its very grip.

“Are you Dr. Snyder?”

“So people call me who don’t know the facts of the case,” I answer with a smile.

“John Snyder,” he persists, with increasing eagerness.

“Beyond“Beyond a question.”

I never saw a deeper melancholy shadow a man’s face or sadden his voice. He seemed broken-hearted, bewildered with some unspeakable sorrow.

“I’ve come 2,500 miles to see you, and now you ain’t the man I’m looking for,” he said at last.

I drew him into the parlor, and in the bright light got a better look at his face and form. He was one of Bret Harte’s portraits stepped out of the frame. Of medium height, slightly but strongly built, his form had about it that untaught and indefinable grace of movement which it is popularly supposed is imparted only by the untrammeled freedom of forest life. His long brown hair slightly curled, fell about his neck, and his handsome beard evidently was as innocent of steel as that of a Nazarite’s. He was roughly dressed, having a pair of alligator boots, to which doubtless the newsboy’s “shine” was an untried novelty. But it was his face that chiefly charmed me. His nose was straight and clearly cut and his eye was as frank and innocent as a baby’s. When he spoke his speech was flavored with that Southern twang which no man not to the “manner born” can ever imitate.

“Yes,” he repeated, with increasing sorrow in his soft voice, “I have come 2,500 miles to see you, and you ain’t the man.”

“You were looking for somebody bearing my name?”

“Yes, sir. You see I’ve been livin’ for about twelve or thirteen years down on the borders of old Mexico, among the Indians and half-breeds. An’ there was a man come down there several years ago by the name o’ Snyder, John Snyder, that’s your name, ain’t it? Yes. Well, he’d been a Methodis’ preacher and he come from my own State, North Carliny. He used to work in the mines an’ he used to preach, too. An’ I tell you he was a mighty good man. ’Fore he come things was awful rough in that camp. Why, they use ter kill a man almost every week. I’ve seen a fellow shot right dead on a bar-room floor and nobody’d take any notice of him, and one of them rough women would go up to the bar to take a drink of whisky and her clothes would jest brush over the dead man’s face! But I tell ye when that preacher come things began to be different. All that killing business begun to stop. The boys jest thought everything of him. They’d trust him with everything they had in the world. And he come to St. Louis about five or six months ago and I want to find him the worst way.”

Thinking that as my heroic namesake had come from North Carolina, he would naturally belong to the M. E. Church, South, I directed my disconsolate visitor to the book concern of that branch of the church militant. As he turned to leave the door he said, “If I didn’t find that preacher, could you let me come back and get you to write me a letter, for I can’t write?” I was touched by the sense of desolation and pitiable ignorance in which this lonely creature seemed to dwell, and said cordially:

“Come back, and I will do anything I can to serve you.”

In the early morning of the next day my backwoods hero presented himself. He had searched the city through, but the saintly miner-preacher was nowhere to be found. And yet there was a gleam of dimmest hope in his eye and a sweet and quiet smile upon his lips, for he seemed to transfer all his loving, clinging confidence to me.

“Well, I couldn’t find him,” he said. “Now, I’ll just tell you in what kind of a fix I’m in. I’ve been out of the mines fur nigh onto thirteen years, and sometimes I’ve got together as much as $12,000 or $13,000 at a time, and then it would jest kinder melt away from me. Now I see a chance to make some money. Fur about twelve years I’ve hed a chum who’s a half-breed Indian, a fellow by the name of Zamora. Well, about six months ago he was out hunting with some full-blooded Indians, and they chased a small deer up the side of a hill; when all of a sudden the deer went out of sight. My chum went up to the place where he missed him, and looking down a hole, saw him jest about four or five feet down. So he went down after him. When he got down there he forgot all about the deer, I tell ye. He was jest in a hole o’ gold! He got the Indians to help him, and right there and then he got out some chunks, and buildin’ a fire where they was campin’, they made what them fellers call a dobie mold and jest run some of the gold into that. After he had filled them Indians full o’ whiskey he knew they’d never think of the place again, and so when he got rid o’ them he went back alone and got what stuff was on the surface. Then he come and told me about it; but mind ye, he didn’t show me the place. Them half-breeds are mighty suspicious. But he brought out three of the chunks. I showed a piece of the stuff to a fellow named Bailey—Capt. Bailey they called him, and he stole it. He said, ‘An Indian ain’t got any rights anyhow.’anyhow.’ Well, if I’d tried to get it back none of the boys would ’er backed me up, ’cause they’re all down on Indians, and Zamora wouldn’t let me trust another feller in the camp. He says to me, says he, ‘Let’s go look for that preacher; we can trust him; these fellers ’ill not only rob us, but put lead into us, too.’ So we come to Kansas City and I buried two of the chunks of stuff in a hole about three feet deep, and then we brought the other chunks here. Now, you see what we want to do is this: First of all, we want to find some man we can trust. That half-breed won’t hardly let me speak to a white man. He is always sayin’: You’ve been cheated once trustin’ a white man, now jest do my way. Let’s find that preacher, we know we can trust him. Well, we’ve lost the trail of that preacher and I want you to help us out. I’ll pay you well fur your trouble.”

I said: “My business is to help people in trouble. What can I do for you?”

“Jest this. We want to go back to that country and fetch out the rest of that stuff. We’ve got to get a lot o’ burros and some wagons, and some full-blooded Indians and some good ponies and rifles. There’s a town, a little place, about ten miles from where this half-breed has hid the stuff. My plan is to take the Indians to this place and then Zamora and me to start off in the night with two or three burros. We’ll go at night so’s no feller’ll foller us. We’ll get the stuff, pile it on the burros, and bring it all away at the same time. If we give them Indians $10 apiece and a new rifle and plenty of whiskey they’d be drunker’n owls before night. Then we can ship the stuff on a railroad and bring it here. Now, we’ve got to get about $2,500 or $3,000 to get the things we want; and we want to raise it on the price of the stuff we’ve got along with us. Now, will you help us? I believe we can trust you, ’cause you look square and straight.”

I endeavored to blush at the childlike compliment, and said:

“What can I do? I never had $3,000 in my life, and never expect to have.”

“Mebbe you know somebody that’ll help us.”

“Where is the gold and the half-breed?”

“Down on that street where they’re puttin’ up a big brick building.”

“On Olive street. Why don’t you take the gold and sell it outright?outright?”

“Now, that’s jest where the stubbornness of that half-breed comes in. He’s sick in bed. Got the worst kind of a cold, on his lungs, I guess, and he won’t let that chunk go out of his sight. He’s afraid that if we take that stuff to find out how fine it is somebody’ll foller us, and we’ll never get out of this town alive. You know them fellers is awful suspicious. What I want you to do if you’re willin’ to help us, is to jest come down and take a bit of this stuff and see how fine it is, and mebbe you can find some way to help us out.”

Curiosity mingled with benevolence. I was anxious to see this mass of gold and talk with this suspicious half-breed. While going to Fourteenth and Olive streets, where the treasure rested under the sleepless eye of the non-confiding son of the forest, my innocent miner would turn his soft and girlish eyes upon my face and speak with wonder and awe of the height of the houseshouses and the crowded condition of the streets. I was ushered into a darkened room with much mystery, where a human figure was lying in bed, with his face muffled up in the bed clothes. Like Claude Melnotte, he had not found the raw atmosphere of St. Louis like “the soft air of his native South.” Between his half-suppressed groans he uttered a few words in Spanish and my guide answered in the same musical tongue. After locking the door and looking cautiously about, my friend drew from under the mattress at the foot of the bed something wrapped in the fragment of an old bed-comforter. In a moment a mass of metal weighing about thirty pounds and shaped like a bar of washing soap was revealed. Evidently a pure gold brick.

“Now,” said David, my innocent-faced friend, “I’ll tell you what we’ll do. I’ll jest bore some holes in this brick, and I’ll get you to take the shavings and get ’em melted into a button. Then nobody’ll suspect. Don’t you see? Then take it to some place down town and have ’t tested. A feller told me out in the mines that he couldn’t tell how fine it was, but he knew it was over 18 karats.”

So he bored a dozen holes into this mass of treasure, and collected the golden shavings into a fragment of the Globe-Democrat. As he came out of the darkened chamber Davis grasped my hand with deep emotion, and said: “This is the only chance I’ve had in nigh thirteen years; if this don’t go through, it jest seems as if I’ll lose my grip.”

I tried to cheer him with a word of sympathy, and hurried to my friend Witt, of the Eugene Jaccard Company, and giving him a portion of the metal, begged him to have it tested. We went together to the workroom of the establishment, where the foreman of the melting department tested the specimen and declared it to be as fine as coin. It nearly took my breath away! The long and weary pilgrimage of my humble and sad-faced friend of the wild woods was about to come to a golden end. He stood on the threshold of a splendid future! In one of his bursts of generous trust he had confided to me the secret that the half-breed owned and had secreted seventy-three other lumps of the virgin metal not counting the one upon which my eyes had feasted and the two safely hidden in the hillside at Kansas City. Seventy-six golden bricks, each weighing over thirty pounds! Let anybody make the calculation and see what prospects the confiding Davis and the untutored half-breed had in store.

Then I sought out my friend, the United States Assayer, and told him the brilliant story. I told him of the sweet and Raphael-like countenance of my friend, of the melancholy sickness and sad distrusts of the lonely half-breed, who was longing for the sight of his native woods. I showed him the coin-fine precious metal I held in my hand, and consulted him about the readiest means of helping the two “babes in the wood,” who, in their ignorance, were the custodians of this uncounted wealth. He listened with unflecked courtesy, and then responded in a voice not musical with tearful sympathy:

“Doctor, I wouldn’t touch it with a ten-foot pole.”

I told him that financially, the pole—so to speak—would have to be considerably more than “ten foot” to enable me to touch it, even if I was so disposed. In other words, I was not momentarily fixed to engage in such enterprises, even if they were endorsed by the angel-faced backwoodsman, and re-inforced by my own sympathy.

“It looks,” he said, “like a gold brick. It seems to me that I recognize the not unfamiliar features of an auriferous brick. Why doesn’t he bring the priceless treasure here? I will pay him the highest price for it. If he doesn’t want to sell I will advance the money they require for burros, wagons and Indians.”

I meekly presented the picture of the half-breed, whose lungs were evidently affected and who could not endure the rigors of the St. Louis climate. He was still obdurate, and refused to invest even intellectually in this hidden treasure. I said that all the symptoms were undoubtedly gold-bricky. That there were unquestionably parts of the story that would not “hold water,” to use the vernacular. That the suspiciousness of the half-breed was certainly over-strained and phenomenal in its excess. That the confidence that my friend of the infantile face was willing to repose in myself, a perfect stranger, was not marked by those periods of slow evolution by which confidence is proverbially brought to fruition. Still, I said, that gentle, guileless, St. John-like face haunted the chamber of my soul’s sympathy. I would as soon expect to see the wondrous Madonna leave its frame in the Sistine Chapel and try to cheat me with a dozen semi-decayed peaches at the street corner as to look for deceit lurking behind the bland and child-like smile of John Davis, the miner. My friend, the assayer, suggested that the sad smile and Madonna face of John were part of his stock in trade. “At any rate, Doctor,” said he, “let him bring the brick here. When I melt it and run it over I will believe it is solid gold; not till then.”

I sought out Davis and told him that Zamora’s confidence would have to bear an additional strain; that if it was a necessity he could be carried on a stretcher to the assay office, bearing the precious nugget in his bosom if he chose, but that nobody would advance money on a gold brick of which they had seen nothing but shavings. A mist of tears seemed to spring into his handsome eyes, and he replied broken-heartedly:

“I’m afraid that I can’t bring him to it. He had to get the doctor to see him this morning ’cause he was spitting blood, and he’s sure he’ll die if he don’t get out of this big town. I can’t help him any longer than to-night, I know. He don’t know the difference, ye know, between a hundred dollar bill and a one dollar bill, an’ if I could only get some money jest to show him and let him see that the parties meant fair, ye see, he’d let the stuff go out of his sight. Then we could sell it or raise the rest of the money on it, and inside o’ two months I could have the rest o’ that pile here in St. Louis. I tell ye, it jest breaks me up to think o’ losing this chance”—and his words were broken with a heavy sigh.

He wrung my hand warmly and we parted.

That sad face haunted me. My wife of course saw that something was troubling my dreams and waking hours, and gave me no rest until I had confided the whole melancholy story to her. With that wifely anxiety respecting the family income and expenses characteristic of the worthy ones of her sex, she exclaimed at once: “You are quite sure that this sympathy didn’t reach your pocket-book?”

“No,” I said, “I am not out of pocket one cent, but if I had been rich, I am pretty certain I should have invested in that face, even though there are thin places in the story.”

Strange as it may seem, my word-photograph of that manly woodman’s countenance did not move her sympathies a whit. A half-dozen times a day she would inquire, with a mischievous twinkle in her eye: “Any news yet from Kansas City?” I tried to show her that, on account of that subtle influence which will always reveal its presence in the face, it is impossible for a rogue to bear such a face as Davis owned. The very spiritual laws of the universe were involved in the denial of such a monstrous supposition. Her only reply was in the expression of a hope that my pocket-book should not get entangled in any of these psychological theories.

Four days passed, and still no news of the weary-hearted Davis. On the fifth day I came into the house bearing a letter in my hand, and said: “My love, I think I’ve got news of that gold brick.”

My friend the assayer had written to this effect:

“My Dear Doctor:—I wish you would call at the office some time to-morrow, if you are down town. I have an interesting specimen to show you.”

I went. On a shelf in the inner vault of the assay office laid that gold brick. There was no mistaking that treasure. It lay like Cæsar in the Capitol, its dozen wounds looking dumbly up and pleading to me for recognition. Thirty pounds of solid coin-fine gold, a fraction of the stately fortune of that mysterious half-breed who

Only the day before a stranger had entered the assay office bearing a gold button, the quality of which he wished determined. He said his brother had taken stock in a mine and he wished from this specimen to know the value of the product. It was as fine as a $20 gold piece. Very probably it was part of a $20 gold piece.

Some hours later he came again, bearing the precious brick in his arms. Wonderful to relate! He had seen the borings from this massive bit of wealth tested and tried, and found to be pure gold, and some envious fairy, with a magic wand that was able to neutralize the alchemist’s potent secret, had changed it into a baser metal. He bore in his arms but thirty pounds of solid brass. He also bore a letter to this effect:

“Sir:—You have been a —— fool to buy thirty pounds of brass. If you can find another man who will be —— fool to give you $2,000 for this brass, I will come and do the talking for you and take half the profits.

My dream was shattered. My Bret Harte hero, with his saintly face and with the flavor of the forest about him, was a vulgar fraud! And yet he was not all bad. Observe the delicate touch of thoughtful benevolence with which he generously offered to come back and help his victim regain a part of what he had lost! There must have been something essentially noble about him to write like that!

Of course I saw what a clumsy trick it all was. The borings were made from the lump of brass, but were simply changed after being wrapped in the bit of newspaper. I have no doubt the gentleman who purchased the brick sees it clearly enough also.

Since that time I have thought it was not a universal experience which is expressed in Whittier’s celebrated lines:

It is doubtful whether there is a man, woman or child in the United States, who has been in the habit of reading the daily press, who has not heard of “Bunko,” and does not have a vague sort of idea that it is a gigantic scheme for swindling. Yet so hazy is the general information of the public as to the details of its operation, that even those who may have read the published accounts of the mode in which the thousands of unfortunates have been victimized through this scheme, are liable themselves to be defrauded in a precisely similar manner because of their own ignorance. I believe that I speak within bounds when I say that millions have been lost and won through this game. It is my intention to so thoroughly expose the methods of its manipulators, that hereafter those who may be fleeced through their operations can attach the blame primarily only to themselves.

The essential requisites of a “Bunko” outfit are—9 small dice with a dice-box, a “Bunko” chart, and—last, but by no means least—a skillful and in every way competent “capper.” It is the peculiar province of the latter to seek out victims and “steer” them to their ruin. The devices resorted to in order to lure the unsophisticated into the den of “Bunko” sharps are too numerous to admit of any detailed description. There is, however, one fundamental principle underlying them all,—to gain the confidence of the man whom it is proposed to rob, and then, by specious representation, to draw him on, step by step, until the unprincipled gang of scoundrels shall have bled him of the last cent which they can obtain. Of all descriptions of gamblers, “Bunko” men are, if not the most astute, certainly the most unscrupulous and the most pitiless. No chicanery is too contemptible, no treachery too base for them to employ; and not infrequently they consummate their schemes of fraud by the perpetration of deeds of actual violence.

The prospective victim having been enticed into the “den of thieves,” the modus operandi by which he is fleeced will now be described as briefly as a necessarily full explanation will permit. The first object that meets his eye is a table upon which is spread an oil-cloth, on which are painted forty-six squares, numbered from 9 to 54, inclusive. The arrangement of the numbers is shown in the accompanying diagram, which also shows the fortune which awaits the players. The game is played by means of throwing the above mentioned dice. The nine little ivory cubes are placed in a box and either the “sucker” or the “capper” (who, as a pretended friend, always plays in concert with the dupe) throws them upon the table. The spots on the top of all the dice are added together, and the sum total is taken as the number which has been thrown. Reference is now had to the chart, and the legend painted upon the square containing the number thrown by the players is read off.

In order to follow the game through, the chart itself must now be explained. If the reader will look at the diagram, he will see that some of the squares contain, in addition to the numbers which are painted upon all of them, figures representing certain sums of money, while others are marked “0,” yet others “00,” while upon some of them is depicted the abbreviation “rep.” He will also observe that some of the squares contain figures representing sums of money which are inscribed with the abbreviation “cond.” The letters “rep” stand for representing; “cond” is the abbreviation for conditional. The mode of play may be best explained by an illustration. If the player, for instance, throws 18, (which number may be found in the upper left hand corner of the chart), it will be seen that the square bears the abbreviation “rep.” This indicates that the player may double (i. e., either pay for another chance and throw again), or withdraw from the game, forfeiting the 50 cents or $1.00 (usually the latter sum) which he has already paid. Suppose that he throw 15, which number may be found in the fourth square from the left in the upper row of the chart, he wins $1.00. If he throws 54—the second number to the right in the fourth horizontal row of squares—he wins $500. If he throws a number painted upon a square inscribed with “0,” “00,” or the abbreviation “chic’y” (which is a contraction for chancery), he neither wins nor loses, and the proprietors magnanimously permit him to try his “luck” (God save the mark) again.

But it is when he throws a number corresponding to that in a square inscribed with a sum of money and the abbreviation “cond” (conditional) that his bad fortune commences.

And just here it is proper to say, that as a matter of fact it makes comparatively little difference what number he actually throws, inasmuch as the man behind the cloth usually counts the spots on the dice to suit himself. As a rule, the man who is fool enough to risk his money at such a scheme is too great a fool to see that his number is correctly read. But if he should insist upon examining the dice for himself, his pseudo-partner, the “capper,” who sits at his elbow, is always at hand to overturn one of the cubes, thereby defeating his last, laudable attempt at self preservation.

Before describing further the misfortunes of the victim, it will be well to give a synopsis of the inscription upon the squares, and to point out the exceedingly ingenious manner in which they are arranged.

The lowest number is nine, for the reason that nine dice are thrown, and as none of the cubes contain a blank side nine aces is the smallest throw that can be made. The diagram gives a fair idea of the arrangement of the numbers on the average chart. The squares contain:

Of the twenty-one prizes, eight are marked “conditional,” the signification of which word in this connection will be presently explained. Of the remaining thirteen, the majority are painted upon squares containing numbers which it is a moral impossibility to throw. Thus a $500 prize is inscribed over 54, a number which cannot be won by the player unless all the nine dice thrown turn up sixes, which has never been known to happen; a $1,000 prize is numbered 9, and cannot be won unless all the dice turn up aces, which they never do; another $1,000 prize requires a throw of 53 to win it, which would involve casting eight sixes and one five, the probability of which is too remote to be worth considering. It is, however, quite within the range of possibility that a “sucker” may throw a number calling for one of the smaller prizes, which serves to encourage him to persevere in his folly.

When a dupe, throwing in concert with a “capper,” has cast a number calling for a “conditional” prize, the proprietor informs them that they have each won the sum inscribed upon that square, but only “conditionally,” the condition being that before payment they shall show that they have that amount of cash. He exhibits his money to pay the prize, and professes his willingness to pay it over as soon as he is convinced that he has not been risking his money against “wind.” Of course, this claim is preposterous. When the victim was induced to play, he was invited to buy a chance in a prize distribution scheme, and not a word was said to him about putting up any stakes or incurring any risk whatever, other than the loss of his dollar.

However, this reflection does not present itself to the dupe, and under the exhilarating and stimulating influence of the “capper,” to which is added the apparent prospect of winning a large sum of money for nothing, he leaves the room in order to obtain the necessary amount, with which he and the “capper” invariably return. At the same moment, departs a third confederate, technically known as a “trailer.” The business of the latter individual is to follow the “sucker” and observe his every movement. Of course he is expected to return to the “office” of the gang before the victim and the confederate shall have arrived. No movement of the dupe escapes him. If he goes to a bank, in order to draw money, the “trailer” stands close at his heels, with a bill of some large denomination in his hand, for which he is prepared to request change in the most courteous manner. No action on the part of the greenhorn is left unobserved, and when the latter returns to the room, in company with the “capper,” the proprietor of the scheme has been thoroughly informed as to every movement which he has made since his departure. As soon as he shows the money, the man behind the cloth takes possession of it, and informs the players that they are entitled to another throw. The “capper” appears to be much excited under the influence of the extraordinary good fortune which has fallen to their lot, and the victim is easily induced again to take the box and throw the dice. If he manifests any hesitation, however, the “capper,” (who, it must be remembered, always acts as his partner), seizes the box and hurriedly throws for both, before the “sucker” has time to remonstrate. Of course, this time he loses. Even should the spots on the cubes as thrown, when added together, amount to a total sum calling for a prize upon the chart, either the operator will read the total erroneously, or the “capper” will overturn one of the dice, thus changing the number actually thrown. The proprietor at once announces that the two players have lost the amount of money, which they brought with them and placed in the banker’s hands. It is idle for the “sucker” to protest that he was not laying a wager, and that this interpretation of the contract is altogether wrong and unfair. The “bunko” sharpers have his money and they intend to keep it, despite all remonstrances. If he offers to make any disturbance, or manifests any disposition to recover his loss by force, he is at once either knocked down or thrown out of the room, or sometimes both together. When he succeeds in summoning the officers of the law to his aid, and in company with the police revisits the room in which he was fleeced, he finds that his tenants have departed, carrying with them the paraphernalia of their trade.

A favorite device under such circumstances, after the greenhorn has returned with his money and has been induced to throw again, is so to read the number thrown by him as to call upon him to “represent,” which is accomplished by calling off a number corresponding to one of the squares upon the chart which is inscribed with the abbreviation “rep.” In this case, he is told that he must double the amount placed in the banker’s hands and throw once more, or lose his “stake.” If he is particularly gullible, and the “capper” has succeeded in persuading him to bring with him to the den a larger sum of money than that called for by the proprietor, he will frequently consent to double his money and try again. As long as he can be induced to keep this up, the sharpers will continue to play with him. As soon as they discover either that he has no more money or that he is unwilling to risk any additional sum, he is informed that he has lost whatever money he may have already advanced.

From the circumstance of sending a dupe after more money, this game has, of late years, been sometimes designated by members of the fraternity as “send”.“send”.

It sometimes happens, however, that the “sucker” when he returns with this money, insists upon being paid the amount of the prize which he has won and flatly refuses to put up any more money in the game. When the sharpers perceive that they cannot induce him to play further the proprietor takes his money, and makes an entry in a large book, with a view to giving the transaction a business like appearance. He then counts out a sum, smaller by some $200 than the amount of the prize, and places this amount together with the victim’s money in an envelope and seals it up. He counts the money in the presence of the dupe and informs him that he has not got the full amount at hand in currency, but that his agent will call upon him in the morning and pay him the balance. Meanwhile, he is at liberty to take with him the envelope, containing his own money and that portion of the prize which the bank is able to pay at the moment. The banker further states that in order that the agent shall pay the money it is essential that the seals of the envelope should not be broken, adding that if they are, no further money will be paid. To this the victim assents, and he is at once handed an envelope, identical in size and appearance with that in which he saw the money placed, and sealed in a precisely similar manner. As a matter of fact, however, the proprietor has substituted for the envelope containing the money one so closely resembling it in appearance that the difference cannot be discovered, but which, instead of currency, contains nothing more valuable than blank paper.

The manner in which the substitution is effected before the very eyes of the “sucker” without his knowledge is as follows: The operator opens the ledger and places between two of the leaves the envelope containing the bank bills. He then presses down upon the cover of the ledger, apparently with a view of sealing the package more tightly. When he opens the ledger, he opens it at another page and takes out the previously prepared envelope. He then marks a cross in pencil over the seal and asks the dupe to write his name across the flap, in order that there may be no possible mischance in the identification of the package when the agent shall call in the morning.

In the description of this game which has been given above, reference has been made only to the casting of dice as a means of determining the number made by any player. Sometimes, however, when an attempt is made to operate the game in resorts of a “higher tone,” cards inscribed with numbers and abbreviations corresponding to those shown in the diagram are used. The number of cards is, of course, the same as the number of squares on the cloth—46. When cards are employed they are dealt from a box similar to that employed in dealing faro, for a description of which the reader is referred to the chapter on “Faro.”

In 1882, Floyd Creek, Pete Lelin, and George Curtis, while traveling in disguise as fugitives from justice—their crime having been the fleecing of one Wilson, at Eureka Springs in 1881, his disastrous losses causing instant death—received a “pointer” from a school teacher concerning a man who had deposited a large sum of money in the bank, and who was supposed to be a “soft mark.” They watched him carefully and eventually succeeded in selling him bricks to the value (?) of $22,000. They received this large sum in gold, and at once took boat for Pensacola. They did not gain anything by their outrageous swindle. While they escaped the justice of man, the vengeance of God overtook them speedily, for their boat sunk and all were drowned, their ill-gotten gains going to the bottom with them.