This is an old game, but none the less successful because of its antiquity. Wherever cupidity and ignorance are found together, there this ancient device takes root and flourishes.

The outfit required is a wooden case, holding one hundred or more envelopes. Most of them contain blank cards, though inside a few are placed tickets bearing numbers. Near this case stands a show case containing a glittering array of prizes, including watches, chains, jewelry, silverware and money. The verdant speculator who is allured by this dazzling display pays a dollar for an opportunity of acquiring title to a portion of it.

Having paid his money, he is permitted to draw an envelope from the case, which he proceeds to examine. If it contains a blank card, of course he has lost. If it contains a card bearing a number, the proprietor of the case compares the number with the list and informs the purchaser whether or not he has drawn a prize. As a matter of course, there are a few comparatively valueless prizes, the winning of which is left to mere chance, although a majority of the numbered tickets do not call for any prize whatever.

The most money making feature of the scheme is worked by the aid of a “capper,” or confederate. One of these individuals saunters up to the case at a moment when he sees there a person whom he considers likely to prove a “soft mark.” The confederate and the intended victim look over the envelopes together listlessly, and the proprietor invites them each to draw one “just for fun.” The “capper” opens his envelope, and finding that he has drawn a blank remarks, “that is just my luck; I never drew a prize yet, and don’t believe that you have one in your whole outfit.” The proprietor professes much righteous indignation that his integrity should be thus assailed, and, to prove his good faith, he says: “I’ll tell you what I’ll do; I’ll make a special prize of one thousand dollars out of one of those numbers which you two gentlemen have just drawn and give you a chance to win it for five hundred dollars.” The “capper” laughs, and hands him the card which he has drawn, which is usually numbered “eleven.” The operator replaces it in the envelope and lets down the back of the show-case, in order to enter a special prize on his list. As he does so, he slips the envelope containing the ticket marked “eleven” into a little secret pocket, from which at the same time he draws another envelope holding a ticket marked “forty-four.” He then places this envelope, together with the one held by the “sucker,” in the box, in such a way that the edge of one of them rises a little above the rest. Both the “capper” and the greenhorn perceive this circumstance and the latter supposes it to have been the result of accident. The “capper” then draws the envelope whose corner is raised and the dupe takes the one next to it. The proprietor asks his confederate to advance his money. The latter replies that he has not more than fifteen or twenty dollars with him. “Well,” answers the operator, “put up that amount, and if you have drawn number eleven, I will pay you an amount equal to your stake.” The “capper” hands over his money, and on looking in his envelope finds that he has drawn a blank. Simulating deep chagrin, he curses his “luck.” The proprietor at this moment conveniently turns his head, and his confederate, snatching the envelope from the hand of the dupe, hastily raises the flap, pulls out a small portion of the ticket within, thus showing the tops of figure forty-four, which leads the greenhorn to believe that he has drawn the lucky eleven. This, in gamblers’ parlance, is called “giving a flash.” In ninety-nine cases out of every hundred, the cupidity of the “sucker” is aroused, and in the firm confidence that he has a “sure thing,” he pays over all the money which he has, in the hope of winning a like amount. Until the money has been paid, he is not permitted to examine his ticket. When, having paid his cash, with trembling hands he opens the envelope, he discovers that instead of the magic “eleven” he has drawn “forty-four,” having been misled by the resemblance between the upper ends of the figures “four” and “one,” shown him in the momentary glance which the “capper” gave him of the card. Of course, he is utterly without redress, and has to bear his loss with such degree of equanimity as he may be able to command.

Strange as it may appear, it is a fact that persons are found who are fools enough to be caught by this trick three times in succession. It is from the majority of such “suckers” as these that the proprietors reap a golden harvest. A man at Council Bluffs stood at the case and bought ticket after ticket until he had dropped six thousand dollars into the coffers of the scoundrels who were manipulating the device.

This game is most successfully worked by the aid of “ropers,”—by which term is meant confederates who allure, or “steer,” victims into the booth or room in which the trick is being operated. The devices resorted to by these “steerers” are numerous and ingenious. Sometimes the dupe is induced to visit the place by means of an offer to sell him a piece of cloth worth two dollars per yard for forty cents; sometimes he is shown a sample of choice tea, which he is told he can purchase at a ridiculously low price. When the greenhorn has been brought in front of the ticket case with the adjacent array of prizes, it is usually an easy matter to induce him to speculate. The “ropers” are paid a commission of forty-five per cent. on all winnings which are made from the men whom they bring in, and I have myself received commissions for this sort of work amounting to more than three hundred dollars in a single day.

Among the petty schemes to which professional sharpers have resort is one known as “betting on weight.” A single illustration, drawn from my own experience, may serve to show to the unsuspecting reader precisely the way in which this petty scheme is carried out.

The incident which I am about to relate happened at Hot Springs, Arkansas, where I had been playing poker—of course on the principles of the “skin” gamblers—in connection with a partner. We had succeeded in fleecing a “sucker” out of a considerable sum of money. He was moody over the loss of his cash, and we believed that he was disposed to be slightly suspicious. In order to disabuse his mind of any such idea, my partner accompanied him down the street, condoling with him as to his losses. My accomplice suggested to him that he might possibly “get even” with me by venturing a wager on some chance subject. “That man, Quinn,” he said, “is ready to bet on anything; he would even bet on spitting at a mark or the weight of a stone,” pointing to a rock which lay in the street. As though struck by a sudden inspiration, he suggested, “Suppose we weigh that rock and bet on a certainty.certainty. That is the only chance which we will ever have to get our money back.” The greenhorn assented, and the weight of the stone was carefully and accurately ascertained. The next morning, having been fully posted by my confederate, I walked down the street and met my partner and the dupe in company. After cordially greeting them, I asked if either of them wished to bet upon any chance whatever. After some little badinage, the “sucker” offered to bet as to the weight of the stone which he and my partner had caused to be carefully weighed the day previous. Of course I assented and the bet was made. Very much to our surprise the prospective victim had only $87 in his pocket, but this he cheerfully staked. The stone was weighed and my guess proved to be the exact weight of the rock. The reason was, that between the moment when my partner suggested the scheme to the dupe and the time the stone was weighed, we had caused to be chipped off a section, whose weight we knew exactly. The greenhorn, on this occasion, “kicked” violently and insisted upon having the stone reweighed. We found it convenient to have recourse to the scales of a Junk dealer who had been previously “fixed” for the occasion and who had officiated as “weigher” the night before. “Oh,” said the descendent of Abraham, “I din’d know vat you shentlemen’s means, I had as many as doo scales; von vat I buy mit and de odder as I sells py. I vays dit mid by separate times on each scale. Vat were you shentlemen’s want nohow?”nohow?” This argument proved conclusive and the “sucker” submitted to the loss of his $87 without further protest.

This is a very simple trick to play, after the operator has acquired the necessary degree of manual dexterity. Its success depends primarily upon sleight of hand, and secondarily upon the assistance of a confederate. In fact, the trick itself is so simple that gamblers who enjoy any standing in the “profession” rarely resort to it until they find themselves in a position where money is absolutely indispensable. Under such circumstances, blacklegs,—even those of a better class—never hesitate to resort to the grossest and most contemptible species of fraud. When one of these gentry sees that he has but one “sawbuck” remaining in his pocket, there is no device too contemptible for him to employ with a view of replenishing his pocket book.

The method of playing this trick is as follows: Two aces are selected and shown to the prospective victim. They are then placed together, the pack cut, and the two cards selected are placed upon the top of one of the piles. At this moment the confidence man—apparently by chance—turns his head. It is easy to invent a pretext. A coughing fit, a sneeze, a slight noise made by a confederate—any one of these, or a score of other excuses will afford the “capper,” (whose assistance is indispensable) an opportunity to perform his part of the scheme which will be explained below. Before the manipulator averts his eyes he says that “if they go in together they must come out together,” which is a self-evident proposition. At the moment when he turns his head the confederate raises one of the aces, and removing a number of cards from the other, turning, places them upon the remaining ace, puts the ace which he has withdrawn in the place of those which he has taken from the second pile. The “sucker” is now thoroughly satisfied that the two aces shown him cannot possibly “come in” to the pack “together.” The operator again turns around and picks up the two piles, leaving the one containing the removed ace upon the top. This latter card he conceals in his hand and commences to draw from the bottom of the pack, turning each card drawn face upward. Of course he knows the card lying directly next to the ace, which is in the middle of the pack. As soon as he sees this he is aware that the next card exposed will be that particular ace. He then repeats the remark, “if they go in together they must come out together,” and offers to bet that the card following this ace, which he shows, is its companion. Naturally, the greenhorn is firmly persuaded that this is impossible, and bets are made as to the happening of this contingency. Usually, the “capper” is exceedingly anxious to bet some trifling wager, perhaps the drinks or cigars. The sharper permits him to win and the same process is again repeated. This time the victim is induced to bet, the stakes being made considerably larger. When the bottom of the pack from which the confidence man has dealt is exposed, it is seen that the lower card is the other ace, the sharper having adroitly passed it from his hand to the bottom of the pack.

While this game is not well adapted to winning large sums, it is a very common thing for men operating it to take $10 or $20 from a dupe, and I have even known as much as $50 to be won through its manipulation.

A brace of blacklegs in San Francisco once swindled an innocent player out of what was to him a considerable sum of money through this means. The victim caused the arrest of the pair, and it is said that when they were brought before the magistrate for trial the court asked them to explain the manner in which the trick had been done, the sharpers having already pleaded guilty. One of them performed the trick for the edification of the court, after which the judge, turning to one of the swindlers, said: “Well, sir, I will give you one year;” and then, turning to the other, added: “I will give you six months. You may go in together, but I’ll show you that you won’t come out together.”

This is a trick of confidence operators which often proves exceedingly successful in extracting money from the pockets of men who consider themselves fairly well versed in the knowledge of the world. The outfit is very simple, and by no means expensive. A number of small cakes of soap of no particular value are procured, or sometimes soap is bought in bars, which are cut into pieces of the desired size. A quantity of cheap pasteboard boxes, each having a drawer somewhat larger than is the piece of soap which it is to contain, are procured and soap placed inside of them. In order to work the game, a room—usually one opening off the street—is rented. The “soap man” takestakes his position on a raised platform, and when a crowd has gathered to see what is going on he takes out a cake of cleansing soap, i.e., a preparation for removing grease and similar substances from cloth. He proceeds to expatiate upon its merits, illustrating his remarks by experimental demonstration. If he is a good talker, and intersperses his remarks with a few interesting anecdotes, he succeeds in attracting and keeping the interest of his audience. When he has proceeded far enough in his remarks he informs his listeners that the manufacturers of this wonderful preparation are seeking to introduce it in a somewhat novel way; that they propose to place a given amount of currency in a certain number of boxes together with a cake of soap in each. These boxes, he says, will be thoroughly mixed and every purchaser will be allowed to select any three boxes (the price of which will be $1.00) from the entire number offered. To prove his sincerity and truthfulness he draws from his pocket several bills, of denominations ranging from $1.00 to $20.00, and announces that he will place them inside the boxes in the presence of the crowd. He takes the bills in his hand, one at a time, folds them up carefully, and apparently inserts them in the boxes. Each box, after the bank note has been placed in it, is dropped into a large leather sachel. When he has disposed of all the bills, he takes the sachel in both hands and shakes it, with a view to thoroughly mixing the boxes. He then opens it and offers to allow anyone present to select three boxes on the payment of one dollar. It is the easiest thing in the world to sell the soap, but no legitimate purchaser ever succeeds in obtaining more than a single dollar bill. The reason is that the vendor adroitly “palms” off the bills of larger denominations, substituting therefor dollar bills which he has previously rolled up and which he holds in his hand at the time that he apparently inserts the large bills into the boxes in the presence of the spectators. In other words, when the boxes have been dropped into the sachel and mixed none of them contain a note of a larger denomination than one dollar, the confidence man having still in his possession all of the large bills. When it is remembered that not more than one box in ten contains any money whatever, the chances of drawing a prize are readily seen to be exceedingly small. The buyers, however, believe that they have seen the large bills placed in the boxes before their eyes, and part with their money very readily. It may be easily seen that “cappers” are almost indispensable in this as in so many other confidence games. It is not necessary that any signal should pass between the confederates. The “capper” usually places his three boxes in his pocket as soon as he has purchased them. Some one in the crowd is always certain to ask him to open them. At first he objects, but finally yields to persuasion. He takes out three boxes from his pocket and one of them is always found to contain a large bill. The explanation of his apparent good luck is very simple. When he puts the three boxes in his pocket he had there another one, precisely similar in size and appearance, containing the bank note which he exhibits to the crowd. When he drew three boxes from his pocket, he took the one which he previously placed there together with two of those which he had taken from the bag.

This is a confidence game which is one of the most direct outrages ever perpetrated upon an unsuspecting dupe. And yet, like most similar tricks, it can be successfully worked only when the proposed victim is ready to sacrifice his own integrity to his avarice.

Two foot racers act in concert with a third man, who personates the “backer” of one of them. The first racer gains the confidence of the man to be swindled, who must necessarily possess some means. He convinces him by actual ocular demonstration that he is a speedy runner, and one on whom it is safe to lay a wager. This done, confidence man number two makes his appearance, attired very much after the fashion of a tramp. He says that he is anxious to find some one with whom to run a race for money. Naturally, his appearance not being such as to inspire any faith in his ability as a pedestrian, a match is soon arranged with the fleet-footedfleet-footed runner. The newcomer puts up all the money which he has—perhaps some $30 or $40—together with his watch, and the race is run. The tramp is beaten “out of sight.” The latter, apparently considerably chagrined, says that he is glad that his “uncle”“uncle” (or some other friend, whom he named), was not there, inasmuch as he would have wagered $20,000 upon him. He adds that the mysterious “uncle,” or friend, has a “barrel of money,” and would have been willing to have staked it all upon his success.

The winner of the race thereupon proposes that he bring his “uncle” there, and that another race be arranged, and it will be an easy thing to “beat” his friend out of a large sum of money, which may be divided between the pair. Of course, as the reader has probably already understood, the two racers are confederates. The proposed victim—the man who has been backing the first racer—falls in with the suggestion and urges the mysterious tramp to induce his friend to come. The second sharper, however, professes great reluctance to defraud his “uncle,” and says that he will go to the latter’s farm and go to work. His confederate and the dupe accompany him to the train, the former constantly urging him to consent to the proposed scheme. At the last moment, the simulated virtue of sharper number two vanishes, and he says that he will induce his “uncle” to come down and lay a wager upon his success, provided that his connection with the scheme shall be kept forever a secret.

In due time the tramp returns, accompanied by an individual to personate the moneyed man who is to put up the necessary stakes. Arrangements are made for the race, the bets are made, and at the termination of the contest it is discovered, much to the surprise of the victim who has been backing the winner of the first race that the tramp, who was on that occasion so easily defeated, has won without difficulty. The stakes are paid over to the winners, and the party of scoundrels at once take their departure.

Sometimes the swindlers find it necessary to place a long distance between themselves and their victims. The latter are tolerably certain to discover, without much reflection, the manner in which they have been defrauded, and they are apt to follow up the gang in company with officers of the law. I have known cases where confidence men who have successfully worked this scheme, have been compelled to disgorge the lion’s share of their ill-gotten gains.

This is another of those bare-faced schemes of fraud which are daily perpetrated upon an unsuspecting public. The method of operation is extremely simple, and it may be that some of the readers of this volume may be able to discover, from the description here given, the manner in which a gross imposition has been practised upon them. The “flim-flam” operator appeals, not to the avarice but to the good nature of his victim.

The favorite localities for playing the trick are fairs, circuses and railroad trains, and—as in the case of a large number of confidence games—large sums are sometimes paid for the “privilege.” The innocent looking news agent or peanut boy is often an adept at practicing this sort of fraud. The accommodating individual whom you see outside of a circus tent, carrying a small valise, from which he produces tickets which he offers for sale is apt to be a “flim-flam” sharper, who pays a percentage of his gains to the proprietors in consideration of being allowed to carry on his practices with immunity.

The game is always worked in substantially the same way. To begin with, the train boy, after selecting his victim, (otherwise termed “mark,”) he approaches him with an offer to sell something—perhaps a book, perhaps candy, possibly fruit. It is of comparatively little consequence whether he buys or not. The next move of the sharper is to ask the proposed dupe to give him a bill of large denomination for several small ones, which he produces. Sometimes he introduces a quantity of small change. After counting the money into the stranger’s hands, the swindler begs him to count it back to him, in order that he may see that it is right. This done, the scoundrel “palms” one of the bills or pieces of money, i.e., secretes it in the palm of his hand, and turns over the cash (apparently intact) to the “sucker,” who, nine times out of ten, puts it into his pocket without looking at it. Men on circus grounds operate in the same way, though generally for larger amounts. Sometimes a bill is folded in the middle, so that each end may count for a separate note of the same value.

As illustrating the inherent uncertainty of betting, the following story of the adventure of an old negro slave in Alabama during the days before the war may serve at once to “point a moral and adorn a tale.” “Old Mose” was a tried and faithful servant whose inclination towards amusement his mistress was disposed to indulge. One day the aged African became possessed with the demon of gambling, and confided his desires to his mistress. Finding that remonstrance was in vain, she finally determined to give the old man five dollars, with which he might amuse himself in any way that he saw proper. The negroe’s eyes brightened and his ivories were displayed from ear to ear as he grinned his thanks and disappeared. A few hours later he returned, with the same expression of supreme satisfaction still illuminating his black face. “Well, Mose,” said his mistress, “did you have a good time gambling?” “Laws, Missus, I’se done had heaps o’ fun out o’ dem five dollahs dat you gib me.” “How much money did you win, Mose?” asked his patroness. “Won lots,” was the reply; “you jes’ wait an’ let dis chile tell you. You see, I goes down de street an’ I meets a white gem’man, and we gambles on de kind o’ folks what comes ’long. I took de white people, an’ he took de black fo’ks. Fust dere comes ’long a white gem’man, an’ he gibs me a dollah. (Now, Missus, you jes’ count an’ ses how much I wins.) Den dere comes ’long two mo’ white gem’men, an’ he done gib me two mo’ dollahs. Dat makes free?” “Yes, Mose.” “Den comes free mo’, an’ he gibs me free mo’ dollars; how many’s dat, Missus?” “Six, Mose.” “Den dere was four mo’ white folks, an’ I gets four mo’ dollars; how many was dat, Missus?” “Ten dollars. Mose; you did very well; give me your money and I will take care of it for you.” “Hol’ on, Missus,” said the old darkey, “de game didn’t close right dar’. Me an’ de white gem’man stood dar fo’ about five minutes, an’ ’long comes a cullud fun’ral, and wiped dis heah niggah right off de face of de yarth.”

At this point in the conversation, Moses’ master made his appearance on the veranda, entering through an open window. He had overheard the narrative of the negro and thought that it would be a favorable opportunity for him to offer a little friendly advice. “Mose,” said he, “that man knew that funeral was bound to pass that spot inside of twenty minutes after you got there. My boy, never attempt to gamble with a professional, for he is sure to ‘ring in’ a cold deck on you every time.”

“” ‘’

A typical Western gambler, well known among the profession but whose name it is unnecessary to mention, tells the following story of his experience at a game which is not generally known to the public. It is designated by the euphonious appellation of “fly loo,” and was first played in this country either in Texas or New Mexico. The method of play is simplicity itself. Each man lays a piece of sugar on the table and the first one that gets a fly loses the drinks or stakes. The gambler in question was one day sitting in a resort at Denver, when a smooth-faced gentleman from the East walked in and suggested “fly loo.” His proposition was accepted, and two lumps of sugar having been procured from the bartender, the pair sat down to await the result. It had been stipulated that the owner of the lump on which the first fly rested was to be considered the loser and should pay the other a dollar. The first fly alighted on the lump of the gambler, as did also the next eight. It began to dawn upon him that the man from the Atlantic coast must have doctored his lump, inasmuch as not a solitary fly would approach within a foot of it. He felt sore, but just then he conceived a brilliant idea. He proposed that they try ten “goes” at $10 a-piece. The stranger assented and the money was put up. The loser then insisted upon a change in the rule, and that the man on whose lump the first fly alighted should win instead of lose. To his great surprise the smooth-faced stranger readily assented. No sooner, however, had the lump been placed upon the table than the flies began to swarm all over the latter’s lump for ten straight times, not one coming near that of the man who had proposed the change. Of course the Eastern man pocketed the stakes and the other was probably the maddest man in Colorado. He knew he had been fleeced, but he was utterly unable to tell how it had been done. Finally he called the stranger aside and said, “My friend, don’t think I am impudent or inquisitive, but I have a curiosity to know how you wound me up. If you will put me on, I’ll promise not to work the game in your territory, and buy a bottle of wine.” He laughed and said, “Well, I don’t mind telling you that I put a drop of stuff on my lump that will make a fly hunt for the next county mighty quick.” II thought as much,” answered the loser, “but how about the last time we played?” “Oh, I supposed you would want to switch, so I just changed lumps on you.”

The most astute professionals sometimes over-reach themselves. I was once playing poker with a young man, an entire stranger to me before the commencement of the game, whom I soon discovered to be a practiced gambler. It did not take me long to discover the particular species of the trick which he was playing. I recognized what is known among the “profession” as the “top stock.” An explanation of this trick may be found in the chapter relating to poker. It is enough to say here that it consists in so arranging the hands, that the proposed victim, when he asks for fresh cards, shall receive a good hand, while the dealer himself, who of course takes the second draw, gets a better one. After a little experimenting, I found that when I asked for three cards on the draw, I usually received three of a kind. While my opponent would always draw three or more, but invariably succeeded in getting three of a higher denomination than mine. After thoroughly satisfying myself as to his tactics, I continued playing until I thought that the time had come for me to act. I had resort to a little policy, whereby I succeeded in winning all the money which he had with him beside a silver watch, the value of which, however, scarcely exceeded $1.25. After the deal, when he asked me how many cards I wanted, I replied that I had made a mistake in my hand; that I supposed I had a pair, but found that I had not. Throwing down my cards upon the table, I asked for five. Any old poker player will understand the effect of such a demand upon the arrangement of the cards by the dealer. For the benefit of those who have never played poker, I may explain that the six upper cards had been previously “fixed” in such a way that I should receive three of a kind, while he would get another set of three but of a higher denomination. By drawing five cards I completely overturned his scheme. As a matter of course, I drew what is known as a “full house,” i. e. three of one denomination with a pair of another. My unfortunate adversary had been rash enough to make his wager before the draft, feeling confident that I would either “stand pat,” i. e. bet on the hand which I originally received, or draw one, two, or perhaps three cards.

He cherished a conviction that in any event he would be able, through the aid of his “top stock” to hold a hand superior to mine. When he perceived that I had seen through his little game and had secured five of the cards which he had cunningly arranged, he was well aware that I held a “full.” His face turned all the colors of the rainbow, and he made no objection whatever to my gathering in the stakes. At his earnest request, I returned to him his watch, but accompanied this friendly act by a bit of advice to the effect that the next time he tried to play “top stock” on a stranger he had better make himself tolerably certain that his antagonist had not seen the same game played before.

The confidence which some men possess in their own ability to play card games which they know nothing about would be sublime if it were not so amusing. I was sitting one evening in a gaming house watching a number of men playing poker. While thus employed a broken-down gambler approached me and asked me if I would lend him $5.00 with which he might play against the faro bank. He added that he would much rather that I should loan him $20.00 in order that he might sit in the poker game. I asked him if he was “dead broke,” and he replied that he was. I next asked him if he was a good poker player, and he made answer that he was the best bottom dealer in the country. I looked at him a moment and said, “It seems rather strange to me that an expert like yourself should be without any money. I used to travel a good deal in Arkansas, where the people managed to support themselves in part by killing ’coons and selling the skins. These skins they generally hung up on the outside of the house to dry. When I came across a cabin, the outer walls of which were covered with skins, I made up my mind that the occupant was a good hunter. When I saw only one or two hanging out, I felt satisfied that the owner was either very shiftless or a very poor shot. Now Bob,” I continued, “if you are as good a poker player as you claim to be, where are your ’coon skins?’”

The same question might be asked of many men who make great pretensions to ability in higher walks of life than gambling. Whenever I hear a man loudly boasting of his own ability who cannot point to any one great thing which he has achieved, I always feel like asking him “where are your coon skins?”

On general principles it is usually safe not to lend money to a man who promises to “pay you in the morning.” Professional gamblers form no exception to the general operation of the rule. A blackleg, who was known among the fraternity as “Stuttering Jim,” once fell into misfortune in St. Louis, while I was a resident of that city. Just what fraud he had been guilty of, I do not now recall; but I remember that the police justice fined him five dollars. “Jim” had no money, and appealed to the clemency of the court for a suspension of the fine. The justice asked him if he was willing to leave town, and if so how long he would require to get beyond the territorial limits of the State of Missouri. The culprit eagerly grasped at the prospect of freedom, and turning to the magistrate with a beaming smile, said: “J-j-judge, wh-what’s the b-best time ever m-made over the b-bridge?” His appeal was not without effect, and the judge allowed him six hours in which to take his final departure from the western shore of the Mississippi. I was among the first men whom he met after his exit from the court house. Concealing the fact of his trial and sentence, he asked me for a loan of $10 “t-till m-morning.” I saw that he was in distress and at once made up my mind to give him the money which he needed. However, I determined to make use of caution. “Jim,” said I, “are you sure that I will see you in the morning?” “W-well, John,” said he, “n-n-not if I see you f-first.” It remains to be added that “Jim” has up to this time scrupulously kept his promise. I have never seen him from that day to this; probably when I meet him he will take great pleasure in redeeming his word.

Among the common devices of faro gamblers to entrap victims, few are more common than to suggest to the proposed dupe that he enter a gambling house and play against the bank, at the same time receiving the secret assistance and co-operation of the dealer. That is to say, the latter individual, who works for a salary, will so manipulate the cards that the outside player shall win the proprietor’s money, after which the dealer and the winner will divide the profits. This scheme usually works well and even old gamblers are sometimes entrapped by it. A veteran dealer of New York City is authority for the following statement, a reminiscence of his own experience:

“A few years ago I was one of the dealers in a faro bank up town, and an acquaintance whom I liked very much was a dealer in a similar bank in the next block. Both were reputed to be, and undoubtedly were, ‘square’ games. The proprietor of the game my friend dealt for, however, was known to be extremely close and mean in money matters, and everybody disliked him, but as his game was trustworthy, his place was well patronized.

“I was not surprised one day when my friend came and told me that ‘Old Nick’ (that’ll do for the proprietor’s name) owed him $5,000, representing his interest in the game in lieu of a salary, which he refused to pay over. My friend proposed that I should come to his bank and play while he was dealing, and he would fix the deck so that I could win out what ‘Old Nick’ owed him and something over for myself. Being a dealer myself, and knowing that a sign from my friend would indicate just how the cards were to run through a deal, I saw that it was possible for me to right my friend’s wrongs and make a few hundred out of ‘Old Nick.’

“The first night everything seemed to go wrong. I got the sign to play ‘single out’ and the cards ran ‘double out,’ and when I played ‘double out’ they ‘singled out.’ I lost $1,000 and left the place, as mad a man as you ever saw. The next day I met my friend, who declared that it was the most astonishing thing he ever heard of, that he had acted squarely all through, and that somebody must have changed the decks in the drawer of the table so that he got hold of the wrong one. He offered to make my loss good if I did not win out the full stake at the next sitting. He seemed square and I believed him. The next night I lost $2,000 more, and when I left the place I was crazy mad. I didn’t dare say anything there, for it would have hurt me at my own place to have it known that I was in a ‘brace’ at another man’s game. I decided to wait until the next day and give the false friend a thrashing at least.

“The next day, however, the bank was closed and the dealer had skipped. ‘Old Nick’ had lost money on the races, had grown desperate, had ‘plunged’ and ‘gone broke.’ His partner, my friend, the dealer, knew that the bank would close and roped me in for a ‘stake’ to get away with. I was terribly angry, for I had been influenced almost entirely by my sympathy for my friend and I wanted to help him out.

“Did I ever get my money back? Well, I should say I did! I was out West two years ago, and one night strolled into a game in Kansas City. Just as I was about to buy a stack of chips, I noticed my friend in the look-out’s chair. He saw me at the same time, and motioned for me to come to him. As I approached he drew out a roll of money and said, ‘Here’s the dust you loaned me some time ago; much obliged, old man.’ I counted it and found it correct. Calling another man to the chair, he led me aside and explained that he had been in a desperate strait at the time and had always intended to repay me. He was now prosperous, he said, and making a fortune rapidly. I played at his game all that night and lost just the $3,000 he had paid me. I felt very queer when I went away, but I felt too cheap to say or do anything. I have come to the conclusion that there’s no money in ‘bucking the tiger,’ unless you are behind the game. I never play in front of the table any more. I can’t afford it.”

There exists a class of people—and its members are far too numerous—who, while condemning gambling in the abstract, and particularly outspoken in their denunciation of the vice when practiced by members of their own family, nevertheless have such a respect for money, that “lucre,” even when won at the gaming table, is not too filthy to command respect for its owner. The motto of such people seems to be: “Get money—honestly if you can, but get it.” An old acquaintance of mine once told me the following story, which is an illustration of the foregoing reflection, for the truth of which he vouched:

The young man, whom we will call James, once lived in a small Western city. His fondness for amusement led him into bad company, and he plunged into all sorts of dissipation, soon becoming a devotee of the green cloth. His parents deplored his lapse from morality, and frequently consulted together as to the best means of effecting his reformation. To deny him admission to the house might be to send him to ruin; persuasion they had found to be utterly without avail; example he derided and threats were a subject for mockery. Accordingly, they decided to adopt an attitude of what might be called, for want of a better name, “armed neutrality.” They determined to allow him to occupy his room and take his meals at home, but never to speak to him. The wayward son used to return to the paternal roof at all hours of the early morning, and after a few hours of sleep would make his appearance at the breakfast table. His father filled his plate and his mother poured his coffee. The rest of the family carried on a conversation, but no one spoke to James. One night the youth had been “playing in great luck,” and had returned home a winner to the amount of several hundred dollars. The following morning at the breakfast table his little sister asked her mother for half-a-dollar, with which to buy a school book. The old lady referred her to her father, who looked sour and querulously said that he saw no reason why he should buy it. The prodigal had heard what had been said, and drawing a roll of bills from his pocket handed the little one a five dollar bank note, saying: “Here, sis, get your book and keep the change.” His mother looked at the old man, and the latter stared at his son. Raising her spectacles and looking at her erring boy with a glance of mingled affection and pride, she asked in honied tones: “James, son, dear, is your coffee sweet enough?”

In various chapters throughout this work, I have related experiences of my own in which I have exhibited myself in the light of being naturally rather timid. I do not think that my inborn proclivities were towards physicalphysical cowardice, however much they may have inclined me toward vice. The truth is, that “conscience doth make cowards of us all.” A few incidents in my own career may serve to illustrate the truth of this principle.

I was once playing poker with a partner and a stranger. My confederate and myself had succeeded in winning a large amount of money from the greenhorn who had been rash enough to try his luck against us. Success had so far emboldened me that I lost all regard for ordinary prudence. I dealt the greenhorn four kings and gave myself four aces. He was irritated in no small degree by his losses and determined to bring matters to a focus. When he looked at his cards and saw that he had four kings, he drew a Remington six shooter from his pocket, and laying it upon the table announced his intention of shooting any man at the board who had a hand to beat his. My partner was struck with terror and signalled me to allow the man to win. I felt rather uneasy myself, but determined that if I must die I would at least pass out of this life with the best grace possible under the circumstances. Looking at my adversary with a bland expression I said, in dulcet tones, “you don’t mean before the draw, do you, sir? I would rather look for a free lunch than for a fight any day.” This remark appeared to mollify him somewhat, and I asked him how many cards he wanted. He looked at me grimly and said, “None.” “Well,” said I, “I believe that I shall have to take two.” Having said this, I discarded two aces, drawing in exchange the first two chance cards which happened to lie upon the top of pack. Of course, this ruined my hand, but I am inclined even to this day, to believe that it saved my life.