For more than thirty years public gaming in Peoria has been practically under the control of a syndicate, the members of which all belong to the same family. For a considerable period but one establishment was in operation, which was conducted by three brothers. Of late years, however, three other houses have come into existence, but it is asserted that they do business only by the grace of the brothers in question. Of the latter it may be said that they are known no less for their liberality than for their calling. While they have made money rapidly, they have spent it freely, and the coarse notes which they have gathered in across the green cloth have gone into circulation without delay. A member of this same family, now well advanced in years, after having “sown his wild oats,” entered politics and was elected mayor of the city. As to the general character of his administration the author is not in a position to speak. The fraternity generally, however, have been under the impression that the suppression of gambling was not one of the ends which he set before himself as the goal of his ambition. In fact, rumor (which, not being particularly well founded, it would be charitable to disbelieve), has it that a rather near relative more than once appealed to the chief executive of the city for protection when hard pressed by men who claimed to have been victimized in his house.

Outside of the select circle already referred to, Peoria has never proved a particularly profitable locality for sporting men. In itself, it presents not a few inherent attractions to men of this stamp. It is the focus of several lines of railroad, the seat of a populous and wealthy county, and, above all, the centre of the enormous whisky trade of the West. Its floating population is at times very large, and it is not to be wondered at that the favored few who have enjoyed a monopoly in gambling have found it easy to accumulate large sums. These considerations have lured other professionals to the spot, but only to find that for them to attempt to make headway against an impregnable combination was like endeavoring to fight against fate.

Confidence men have always been apt to regard Peoria as a favorable field in which to look for “suckers.” At times a moderate degree of success has attended their efforts in this direction, especially on occasions when a particularly large crowd was present in the city, as, e. g., during the holding of State fairs and of political and other combinations. But on the whole, the city has been comparatively free from the incursions of this class of swindlers. Perhaps it may have been the abundance and cheapness of the “golden corn juice” which interfered with their operations. Either the sharpers or their dupes may have found the indulgence of one vicious appetite so easy as to interfere with the gratification of another. However this may be the fact remains that the city has never proved a specially remunerative theater for this description of thieves.

The best known proprietors of banking houses in Peoria have been the Warner brothers, Becker, Hale and Christy. Most of them are understood to have succeeded fairly well in their chosen calling, and this circumstance is undoubtedly due in a great measure to the character of trade for which Peoria is noted. The distillers spend money freely and the circulation of bank notes is brisk. Moreover, the customers of these gentlemen are generally men who are not averse to seeking recreation in an attempt to break the bank.

In fact, it is a matter worthy of comment that intemperance and gaming usually go hand in hand. Like twin monsters they stalk through the land with giant strides, leaving despair and ruin in their track. They supplement each other in the work of destruction. Liquor inflames the passions, stimulates the imagination, blunts the moral sense, and impairs the reasoning powers of the mind. The natural result is that the victim of the alcohol habit is easily incited to patronize the gaming hell. On the other hand gaming always induces excitement, and leaves either fictitious exhilaration or profound mental depression. In either case the gamester has resort to stimulants; it may be to heighten the exuberance of his joy; possibly to drown the recollection of his troubles or stifle the voice of conscience.

It is not the intent of the author to imply that Peoria differs from other cities of its size in this regard, nor would he say that the presence of a distillery in any town tends directly to promote and foster gambling.gambling. Yet any great center of the liquor traffic naturally draws thither a class of men who can see nothing specially wrong in gaming, and who, finding such resorts in active operation at any given point, are apt to extend to them an active patronage.

So far as lottery gambling is concerned, there cannot be said to be much of it at Peoria. The negro population—to whom “4-11-44” appeals more closely—is by no means so large as in various other cities in the State. Nevertheless, tickets in the Louisiana lottery, and even “eighths” are purchasable at these resorts where young men “do most congregate.” “The fangs of the serpent are far-reaching,” nor does there seem to be any way of limiting the number of victims unless the snake be “scotched” as soon as it raises its head. All honor to the State, which, although well-nigh hopelessly in debt, declined to surrender its moral freedom to the grasp of the anaconda. All honor to the National Administration whose executive head has called attention to the best remedy for removing this blot upon the civilization of the nineteenth century. All shame to the truculent spirit (not to say venality) which rampantly raises its head not only to defeat public policy but also to debauch public morals.

From time immemorial, the capital of Hoosierdom has been recognized among sporting men as a poor locality in which to attempt to conduct a gambling house. Not so much because of the higher morality of the inhabitants, nor on account of the rigid enforcement of the laws against gaming, as for the reason that the authorities, from the patrolmen on the “beat” up to officials of high rank, have been wont to levy such heavy assessments upon keepers of resorts of this character that the business has, as a rule, proved unprofitable. It is a common saying among “crooks” that at Indianapolis “arrangements may be made” for committing any offense, from picking a pocket to “cracking” a safe or “sand-bagging” a man, but such privileges “come high.”

Still, gambling hells have existed in the capital of Indiana since a date considerably antecedent to the war, and it is probable that it will always be possible for men who wish to seek their own ruin through this channel to find the means at hand. A demand has never yet failed to create a supply. Before and during the war the principal resorts were those of Basey, Noe, Reynolds, Dunn, Russell and Mortland. These men were old residents and enjoyed more privileges than were accorded to parties from abroad who came later, such as Snow, Barnes, O’Neill, Martin, Steiger, Williamson, Warner, Swift and others, who did business from time to time at subsequent periods. Mortland prospered, and invested his winnings in real estate, erecting a fine block on Illinois Street nearly opposite the Bates House. A certain portion of the building was especially designed for the purposes of a gambling house. Howard Barnes opened the “Maison Doree,”—an elegant resort, where faro, poker and keno were played, and having elegantly furnished rooms for the accommodation of private parties. The establishment enjoyed a large patronage, as did also the “House of Lords” and the “Dollar Store.” But the rooms most favored by gamblers of the higher social classes, and where the play was heaviest, were those of O’Neill, situated at number ten Canal Street. The proprietor also opened a keno room, but considering the demands of the authorities extortionate, refused to comply with them, and war upon him was declared at once. His houses were raided night after night, and he himself repeatedly indicted. The result was that he found his business destroyed and left Indianapolis for the more congenial latitude of Washington City.

“Brace” faro kept even pace with the “square” game, but was always conducted on a cheap scale and by men who, as a rule, made little money. Among the best known faro dealers, who were said to belong to this class, were Jake Fidler, Charley Young, “Sock” RileyRiley, Fred White, Clift Dougherty, “Little Walter” Ellworthy and George Slaughter.

While the officials were able, however, to keep the banking games in check, poker never could be wholly suppressed. For twenty years there has been a game at the Bates House, at which many members of the Legislature have taken a hand while in attendance at the Capital. Among the players have been numbered some of Indiana’s “favorite sons”, men who attained distinction at the bar and in public life, the names of some of them being as familiar as household words to the great body of the American people. Other games of poker were played at rooms conducted by Ridgeway, Forbes, Stark, Baker, McCarthy, Richardson and Sim Coy.

Owing to the fact that Indianapolis is a great railroad centre, the Union Depot in that city has always been a favorite stamping ground for confidence men, who have reaped a golden harvest from the verdancy of their dupes. They have varied their operations at the depot proper by “working” the trains running into and out of the city. “French” Joe, “Big” Kendricks, “Sock” Riley, Lou Houck and George Duvall, each with a mob of confederates at his heels, have at various times made Indianapolis their headquarters.

At present, the city is known to the fraternity as “closed”, and the only gambling worth mentioning is the poker game at the Bates House, to which reference has been already made; and another game played over the English Opera House. Both these are commonly regarded as “swell” resorts, and at times high stakes change hands across the table.

What has become of the notorious characters who, as has been said, formerly pursued their nefarious calling here? A few of them have found other employment in the same city, while others have betaken themselves to new fields. Snow died of consumption. Ridgeway was found dead in his bed. Mortland was thrown out of his buggy and killed. Basey committed suicide by jumping from the window of the Occidental Hotel. His son-in-law, Major Russell, once known as the genial man about town, witty, well informed, and a universal favorite, poisoned himself. Ben Law, Jr., is serving a life sentence for murder. Ben Law, Sr., is awaiting trial on a charge of having killed his hired man while asleep in bed, being instigated thereto by jealousy. George Leggett, a businessman and gambler, and Ed. Brown (sometimes known as “scar-faced” Brown) a notorious character from Lexington, Kentucky, induced a man named John Acky, a good-natured, clever fellow, but too fond of liquor, to enter into a partnership with him in the conduct of a gambling house. Acky had just received the last installment of his inheritance from his father’s estate. Brown was to be the dealer for the establishment. The game was opened, and Acky was easily led away from the room and freely plied with liquor. When he became sober and returned to the place, he was told that the bank was broken, some unknown man having “won the roll”. This story appeared to Acky to be rather flimsy, and on inquiry he soon satisfied himself that he had been swindled. He went to Leggett and, telling him what he believed, asked for a loan of twenty-five dollars. Upon being refused, he procured a pistol, and, after taking several drinks, went in search of Leggett and Brown. He found them in a billiard hall and shot Leggett, killing him instantly. He was convicted of murder and hanged. Brown subsequently came to a miserable end, being killed in a brawl at a mining camp at Leadville. “Verily, the way of the transgressor is hard.”

The defalcation of Wm. E. Denny, Assistant Postmaster at Evansville, is too fresh in the public mind to call for repetition here. His confession showed that he had lost the money embezzled across the green cloth.

Such instances as these are by no means exceptional in the history of gambling and gamblers. A great poet is authority for the assertion that “man never is, but always to be blest.” Practical experience teaches that man who have become infatuated with the gaming habit always defers reformation until the “morrow,” which never comes. The philosopher who seeks for illustrations of the truth of this statement need not confine his researches to the City of Indianapolis or the State of Indiana. The defalcations of trusted employees—whether in the employ of the government, of private corporations, or of individual firms—are too plentiful to call for enumeration. The hard-earned accumulations of the poor, stored—dollar by dollar—in the vaults of savings banks, go to swell the revenue of the professional blackleg, dissipated through the peculations of a dishonest official. Trust funds, the sole support of widow and orphan—are sunk in the pitiless insatiate maw of the “tiger,” and the man whose death bed was rendered an easy couch because of his confidence in the honor of the friend in whom he trusted, is powerless to arise in defence of those who were dearer to him than his life. O, the cursed maelstrom, in whose dark eddies, fortune, truth, honor, find a common grave! Would God that my feeble voice might arrest the man, who, playing on the outer edges of the whirlpool, is destined to be sucked into its vortex. Of a truth, the path to the gaming resort is one “whose steps take hold on hell.hell.”

A single remark may be made as to the interference of the Indianapolis authorities with public gaming. While, as has been said, the city is, in gambler’s parlance, “closed,” the outrageously flagrant manner in which the gullible stranger is fleeced at the Union Depot has brought the name of the town into disrepute. Gaming resorts are few, but confidence men reap a golden harvest from travelers, and the municipal government lifts not a finger in their protection.

GAMBLING IN SPRINGFIELD, ILLINOIS.

The city of Springfield—one of the most beautiful of its size in all the West—being at once the capital of the State and an important railroad centre, could be hardly expected to be free from the incursions of professional gamblers. While public sentiment among the better class of citizens is outspoken in condemnation of the vice, there has never been any determined effort on the part of the authorities to suppress it. This may be ascribed partly to the weighty political influence in municipal affairs wielded by the “tougher” elements of society, and in part to the fact that only occasionally do the gamblers so far outrage public decency as to flaunt their business before the eye of the public. The practical result of this state of affairs has been that a sort of tacit truce exists between the law-abiding citizens and this class of law-breakers.

The locations of the public gaming-houses, some half dozen in number, are nearly as well known as are those of the public buildings; and while they cannot be said to be “wide open,” it is by no means difficult for a player to gain admission. They derive their revenue from all classes, and they number among their patrons even men who are openly loud-voiced in denouncing them. More than one wife and mother in Springfield (and of what city cannot the same assertion be made?) sheds, in secret, bitter, scalding tears over the ruin—financial and moral—which these plague spots, these veritable pest-houses, have wrought in homes which were once the abodes of comfort, happiness and peace. But the hells reap their richest harvest during the biennial sessions of the General Assembly, when members vie with lobbyists for places around the tables. More than one law-maker has lost, at a single sitting, in such houses as Brewer’s or Manning’s, more than his per diem and mileage for the entire session.

Another prolific source of revenue is found in the vast numbers who flock to Springfield from the rural districts, either to interview their representatives in the legislature, or to inspect the State House and view the other lions of the capital. Strangers of this description are promptly marked by the “ropers” and “steerers” as their own peculiar prey, and woe betide the luckless wight who listens to their blandishments.

The Springfield gambling houses are not, as a rule, models of elegance in their appointments, nor are they—if the prevalent impression is well founded—above resorting to chicanery when it appears probable that tortuous devices may be safely and profitably employed. For many years “Tom” Brewer (who later transferred his residence to Chicago) was the acknowledged “king of the games.” He was recognized as a good dealer and was a “high roller” at other houses, his impassive countenance betraying no emotion in the moment of either loss or triumph. Of irascible temper, however, and fond of the “flowing bowl,” he was continually involved in brawls. At such moments he cared for neither “God, man, nor the devil;” and was quite as likely to select the Governor of the State as a victim on whom to empty the vials of his wrath as anyone else. Legislators and tramps, clergymen and “bums” all stood on one common level. Other members of the local fraternity wondered at his temerity, admired his daring, and followed his lead, yet at the same time his personal popularity was never very great.

Not all the gambling at the Illinois capital, however, is carried on at public resorts. Private poker clubs were formerly numerous. For years, certain young bloods about town were wont to gather at the Leland Hotel for a friendly game of “draw.” In another, yet not remote, quarter of the city assembled professional men and men of letters, the roll of members comprising some of the brightest minds of Central Illinois, for purposes of relaxation and social intercourse. Here poker constituted one of the chief diversions, and play, although, it is said, never high, was constant. In private houses, also, the same mania finds its devotees. “Facilis descensus Averni;” and it is but a step—and a comparatively short one—from “five cent ante,” in the drawing room, to poker in the gambling hell, that portal through which so many thousands have entered on the path whose end is the felon’s cell or the outcast’s grave.

To the credit of the young and middle aged men of Springfield, however, be it said, that at present poker clubs are by no means so flourishing in Springfield as they were a few years ago. The reason unquestionably is that some of those who in former days, were among the chief patrons of the game have had their eyes opened to the dangers that lurk in “social gambling.” During the palmy days of the “clubs,” professional gamblers sometimes succeeded in securing admission to a game as visitors. “Once upon a time,” as the children’s chroniclers say, a polished stranger “from the East” appeared at the leading hostelry. His dress was faultless; his manners frank and engaging. He was introduced into the “club,” where he soon rose in general esteem. He played freely, and at first with varyingvarying success. Gradually the “fickle goddess” selected his chair as her permanent resting place and it was not long before his extraordinary “luck” had pretty well “cleaned out” the habitues of the rooms. Play fell off, and the stranger’s “business” having been accomplished he bid his late friends adieu and disappeared from public view. Suspicion did not then rest upon him, but subsequent developments proved conclusively that he was a professional “pigeon plucker,” and an accomplished expert at every form of card-sharping.