The Slave of the Mine

"I rather like this game!"

"Well, I should smile if you didn't. Luck's dead sot in for you now, you can bet."

"Perhaps," said the first speaker; "but I don't propose to follow it up."

"What?"

The second speaker sprang from his chair in amazement.

"No. I flatter myself I know when to stop. I have played at Baden and Monaco, in the clubs of London and the hells of Paris, as well as the gambling saloons of the West, and I'm not to be picked up for a flat."

"That's sure; but look at here; as sure as my name is Dan Markham, and I'm known as a profesh at gambling from here to Cheyenne and Virginia City, and lettin' alone Omaha, you're wrong."

"Why?"

"When you've got a run of luck, play it for all it is worth."

"You think so?"

"My friend, fortune is within your grasp. Play on the ace and copper the jack, I tell you," replied Dan Markham.

"Thank you. I don't want any one to dictate to me."

With this quiet answer the first speaker piled up his checks and received an equally large pile of gold twenty-dollar pieces, which he placed in an inside pocket of his coat. Then he laughed harshly.

"I don't know why I do this sort of thing," he remarked. "It isn't because I want the money."

"I'll tell you," replied the gambler.

The lucky player rose from his seat and the game went on, there being a dozen or more men present who were intent upon it.

The game was faro.

Slowly and solemnly the dealer took the cards out of the box, and with equal solemnity the players moved their checks as their fancy dictated.

The first speaker was a man of a decided English cast of countenance, and the profusion of side whiskers which he wore strengthened his Britannic look.

He was well dressed, handsome, though somewhat haggard, as if he suffered from want of sleep, or had some cankering care gnawing at his heart.

A gold ring, set with turquoise and diamonds, sparkled on his finger, and his watch chain was heavy and massive. The gambler was probably forty years of age, which was ten or twelve more than his companion, and his face bore traces of drink and dissipation; but there was a shrewd, good-natured twinkle in his eye which showed that he was not a bad-natured man in the main. In reality, Dan Markham was known all over the Pacific Slope as a good fellow.

Retiring to the lower end of the room, the first speaker accepted a glass of wine which was handed him by a negro waiter who attended on the supper-table.

"You were saying, Mr.-er-Mr.--" he began.

"Markham," replied that individual.

"Ah, yes! Thank you! Well, you were observing--"

"Just this: I know why a man plays, even though he's well fixed and has got heaps of shug."

"Do you?"

"Yes, Mr.-er-Mr." continued Markham, imitating his companion's tone in rather a mocking manner.

"Smith. Call me Smith."

"All right, Smith; you play because you want the excitement. That's the secret of it. You've got no home."

"That's true."

"No wife?"

"No."

"Exactly. If a man's got a home, and the comforts, and the young ones, and in fact all that the word implies, he don't want to go to a gambling-saloon. No, sir. It's fellows like you and me that buck the tiger."

The person who had designated himself as Mr. Smith smiled.

"You are an observer of human nature?" he said.

"Well, I guess so. Pete!"

"Yes, sah!" replied the negro.

"Give me some of that wine. Darn your black skin, what do I keep you for?"

"You don't keep me, sah!" replied the negro.

"Don't I, by gosh? It's me, and fellows like me, that keep this saloon a-going, and that keeps you."

Pete made no reply, but opened a new bottle and handed the gambler a glass of the sparkling wine.

"Going to play some more, stranger?" asked Dan.

"I may and I may not. As I feel at present I shall look on," replied Mr. Smith.

"How long have you been in this country?" continued Dan.

"All my life."

"Hy?"

"I was born here."

"Whereabouts?"

"In Maine."

"Oh, come now; you can't play that on me. You're a Britisher."

Mr. Smith colored a little and looked rather vexed.

"Doesn't it strike you, my friend," he said, "that you are a trifle inquisitive?"

"It's my way."

"Then all I have to say is that it is a mighty unpleasant way, and I don't like it for a cent."

"Is that so?"

"Yes."

"Then you can lump it," replied Dan Markham, lighting a cigar and staring him in the face.

Mr. Smith evidently did not want to have a quarrel, for he walked away and strolled through the rooms, of which there were four.

These rooms were elegantly furnished, provided with sofas and easy-chairs. On the tables were all the best periodicals and magazines, so that frequenters of the gambling-house could while away their time without actually playing.

But the tables possessed a fascination which Smith, as he called himself, could not resist.

He strolled back to the faro game and watched the play, which kept on incessantly.

When one player fell out, another took his place, and so it went on, all night long, till the garish streaks of the gray dawn stole in through the shades of the windows, and the men who turned night into day thought it prudent to go home.

A young and handsome man attracted Mr. Smith's attention. He was well dressed, and had an air of refinement about him. His eyes were bloodshot and his face haggard. His hands clutched the chips nervously, and he was restless, feverish and excited.

He pushed the clustering chestnut locks from his fair brow, and watched the cards as they came out with an eagerness that showed he took more than an ordinary interest in the game.

His luck was villainous.

He lost almost every time, and when he tried to make a "pot" to recoup himself, it was all the same-the wrong card came out.

At length he put his hand in his pocket and found no more money there.

With a sigh he rose from the table, and with bowed head and bent back, his eyes lowered and his face wearing an expression which was the embodiment of despair, he walked away.

Mr. Smith followed him.

This was a type of character and a situation he evidently liked to study.

"Ruined! Ruined!" he muttered.

At this juncture he encountered Dan Markham, who had been paying his respects to some boned turkey, and making a very respectable supper.

The professional gambler can always eat and drink, the fluctuations of the game having very little effect on his appetite.

"Hello! Baby," he exclaimed; "you here again to-night?"

"As you see," replied the young man, whose feminine cast of countenance justified the epithet of "Baby" which the gambler had bestowed upon him.

"I thought I told you to keep out of here."

"I know it."

"Then why didn't you follow my orders?"

"Because I couldn't. It was here that I took the first downward step, and to-night I have taken the last."

The gambler regarded him curiously.

"Clarence Holt," he said, "have you been drinking?"

"Not a drop; but it is time I did. My lips are parched and dry. I am on fire, brain and body. Is this a foretaste of the hereafter in store for me?"

"Weak-minded fool!" cried Dan.

"Yes, I was weak-minded to trust you. I was a fool to listen to your rose-colored stories about fortunes made at a faro-bank."

"Come, come! no kicking."

During this conversation Mr. Smith was leaning against the wall, half concealed in the shadow, and smoking a cigar, while he was ostensibly engaged in jotting down some memoranda with a pencil on a scrap of paper, yet not a word was lost upon him.

"You can bully me as much as you please, Dan Markham!" exclaimed Clarence Holt. "But I warn you that I am getting tired of it."

"Tired, eh?"

"Yes, sir; there is a limit to human endurance."

"Is there? Since when did you find that out?" sneered Dan.

"To-night. I have lost a whole month's salary."

"What of that? I'll lend you money."

"Yes, on the terms you did before," replied Clarence Holt, bitterly. "You have made me forge the name of the manager of the bank in which I am employed to the extent of three thousand dollars."

"That isn't much."

"I can never pay it."

Dan Markham lowered his voice almost to a whisper.

"Yes, you can," he said.

"How?"

"Steal it. You have every opportunity."

"And become a thief?"

"Yes."

"Never!"

"Why not? Are you not already a forger? I hold three notes of Mr. Simpson, the manager of the Bank of California, which he never signed, though you did it for him; and if those notes are presented for payment you will go right up to the State Prison at Stockton quicker than railroading."

Clarence Holt groaned deeply.

He was, indeed, in the power of this man, and, struggle as he could, he was unable to extricate himself.

Mr. Smith gathered from this conversation that Dan Markham had got the young man in his power with some object in view.

Clarence Holt was a clerk in the Bank of California, and had forged the name of Mr. Simpson, the manager, to the extent of three thousand dollars, Markham holding the forged notes.

That evening Clarence had risked his whole mouth's salary at faro, and lost.

Hence his despair and agitation were fully accounted for.

"What do you want of me?" asked Clarence.

"My money."

"What will you take for the notes?"

"Double their face-value, and then I'll hand them over to anybody."

Mr. Smith stepped forward and bowed politely.

"Pardon me," said he. "Did I understand you to say that you are anxious to sell some notes?"

"Oh! it's you, Mr. Smith," replied Markham. "If you've got six thousand dollars to throw away on security which is only worth three, we can deal. I want to go to Sacramento to-morrow, and I'll sell out."

"I have overheard the entire conversation," said Mr. Smith, "and I sincerely commiserate this young man, who has fallen into the hands of a sharper!"

"Throwing bricks, eh?"

"Never you mind, my friend. Hand over the notes and I will give you the money."

Markham produced a wallet which was filled with papers and bills, among which he searched until he found the documents of which he was in want.

"Here you are," he exclaimed. "I'd like to find a fool like you every day in the week."

"Would you?"

"If I did, I'd die rich."

Laughing heartily at his own joke, Markham handed over the notes and received the six thousand dollars in exchange.

"Thank you," he added, and extending his hand to Clarence Holt, he said: "Good-by. Take my advice. It's straight. Never bet on a card again."

Nodding carelessly to Mr. Smith, he knocked the ash off his cigar and left the room.

When he was gone, Clarence Holt grasped Mr. Smith's hand.

"How can I thank you?" he exclaimed.

"My dear fellow," replied Mr. Smith, "you have nothing to thank me for."

"Nothing!"

"No, indeed."

"But you have saved me," said Clarence. "You are a whole-souled, generous-hearted man. Give me the forged notes, that I may tear them up, begin again, and, leading a new life, bless you for ever."

A cynical smile curled the lip of Mr. Smith.

"Not so fast, my young friend," he said.

"What do you mean?"

"Simply that I am not your friend, and that I have not done anything of a particularly generous nature."

"How?"

Clarence Holt's countenance fell again as he ejaculated this monosyllable.

"You have only exchanged one master for another," replied Mr. Smith.

"Really, sir," said Clarence, "I am at a loss to understand you. I took you for a gentleman who, having by accident overheard a conversation which was not intended for his ears, endeavored to atone for his conduct by doing what lay in his power to help--"

"Don't catechise me, if you please," interrupted Mr. Smith.

"I have no wish to be offensive."

"If you had I would not allow you to gratify your inclination. Mr. Markham has handed you over to me, and I have bought you."

"Bought me?"

"Why, certainly."

"May I ask your reason for acting in such an eccentric manner?"

"Yes; I like to buy men. It is a fancy of mine. I find them useful occasionally."

Clarence Holt bit his lip.

"Where do you live?"

A card containing an address in Mission Street was handed to him, and, glancing carelessly at it, he put it in his pocket.

"When I want you," he said, "I shall know where to find you."

A rebellious fire burnt in Clarence's eye.

"Suppose I refuse to do your bidding?" he asked.

"Oh! well, in that case I should go to the bank and show the authorities the notes I have bought. I presume they would see that you were punished, and taken care of for a year or two."

Clarence pressed his hands together violently.

"Oh! have I come to this?" he cried. "Would to God I had taken my dear wife's advice and never gambled!"

Mr. Smith looked at him.

"Married, eh?" he remarked.

"Yes, sir."

"Pretty wife?"

"The most divine creature you ever saw. I suppose I am a partial judge, and that my opinion is not to be relied on; but I assure you, sir, that no artist or poet ever conceived so lovely a specimen of womanhood as my darling Elise."

"Humph! How long have you been married?"

"Three years."

"And in love still?"

"Yes, indeed; more than ever."

"Odd way of showing your love, coming to a gambling-house. Any children?"

"One little girl. But allow me to explain. I came here with my month's salary to try and make money enough to pay off Markham, who has been my ruin. Now I have not a dollar to go home with, and how we are to live I do not know."

Mr. Smith took a dozen twenty-dollar gold pieces out of his purse.

"Take these," he said.

"You will lend them to me?" cried Clarence, delightedly.

"I give them to you. What is the use of lending money to a pauper? I give this to you just as I would give an alms to a beggar."

"Your words are very bitter," said the young man, as he shivered visibly.

"There is no necessity for me to be silver-tongued with you," was the reply. "Go home to your wife. I will call and see you soon."

Mr. Smith threw himself into a chair, and appeared to take no further notice of Clarence, but he was seated in a manner which permitted him to have a good view of the gambling-table.

At first Clarence Holt hurried toward the door, as if full of virtuous resolution to return home.

Then he paused, and turned off toward the lunch table, where he ate a little salad and drank some wine.

The gold pieces were burning a hole in his pocket.

They were amply sufficient to live upon for a month; but if he could only double them!

Surely his bad luck could not stick to him all the evening.

He would try again.

"What time is it?"-he looked up at the clock-"only eleven!" Elise, his little wife, has got the baby to sleep by this time and is probably reading, while eagerly expecting his return home. Another hour will make no great difference.

He goes to the table and buys some checks, with which he begins to speculate.

Mr. Smith laughs with the air of Mephisto, and says to himself:

"I knew it. Score one to me again for having some knowledge of character. He is a weak man and easily led. So much the better for me."

Presently a lady, thickly vailed, entered the saloon and looked timidly around her.

Evidently she was searching for some one.

Seldom, indeed, was a lady seen in the saloon, for it is not the custom for the fair sex to gamble in America, whatever they may do in Europe.

The negro in charge of the lunch-table advanced toward her.

"What you want heah, ma'am?" he asked.

"I am looking for a gentleman," she replied, in a nervous tone.

"Plenty ob gen'elmen come and go all night. It's as hard as de debble to find any one in dese ar rooms."

"He is my husband. Perhaps you know him. His name is Clarence Holt," continued the lady.

"Oh! yes, for suah. I know him."

"Then I implore you to tell me if he is here. Where is the room in which they play?"

"No place for ladies, dat; besides, Marse Holt him been gone an hour or more with Marse Markham."

"Is he with that bad man? Ah, me! what future have I and my child now?"

She pressed her hands to her face and sobbed, while the negro held the door open.

Suddenly there was a loud cry from the inner room, in which the game was progressing.

"By heaven. I win! Give it me. It is all mine. All-all," shouted a man.

Mrs. Holt uttered a scream.

"'Tis he!" she cried. "Wretch, you have deceived me. Stand on one side. I heard my husband's voice, and I will see him."

She pushed past the negro, who would fain have stopped her had he been able to do so, but her movements were too quick for him to intercept her.

"This is becoming decidedly interesting," observed Mr. Smith; "Elise has come after Clarence. By Jove!" he added, as she raised her vail, "she justifies his description of her. A prettier creature I never saw!"

The luck had changed, and Clarence had been fortunate enough to win largely, as a pile of gold by his side fully testified.

The young wife tapped him on the shoulder.

"Clarence," she whispered.

"You here?" he cried, while a flush of annoyance crossed his face.

"Oh, yes; forgive me. Come home, will you not?"

"How dare you follow me here?"

"I was so lonely. I found a note from Markham appointing a meeting here, and I knew you had your salary with you. We have no food in the house, and--"

"Confound you!" he interrupted, almost fiercely. "Do you want every man here to know our private affairs?"

"What are these men to you, Clarence?"

"Go home. I will come when I am ready. You distract me. Go!" he exclaimed.

Sadly she turned away. Her tears flowed fast, and so broken-hearted was she that she did not bestow one glance at the feverish and excited face of her erring and misguided husband.

At the door she was confronted by Mr. Smith, who bowed politely.

"Madame," he exclaimed, "permit me to have the honor of escorting you to your carriage."

Elise Holt looked up in surprise.

"I have no carriage, sir," she answered.

"Then I will get you one."

"But I have no money to pay for one."

"My purse is at your service."

"Oh, sir," she exclaimed, blushing, "it would not be right for me to accept a favor from a perfect stranger."

"Pardon me, I am a friend of your husband."

"Is that so? Well, if you know Clarence, will you not persuade him to come home?"

She looked pleadingly at Mr. Smith.

"I will do more than that," he rejoined.

"How?"

"I will see to it that he does come to you in half an hour. Come, take my arm."

Elise did not hesitate any longer, but timidly placed her little delicately-gloved hand on the arm of the handsome stranger, who was so kind and generous.

"Ah!" she thought, "if I had married him instead of Clarence!"

They descended the stairs together, and her tears ceased to flow.

* * *