Adventure Magazine Cover — page 27: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

Born to be Hanged, But— AR get something definite and serious on me to make a case of it. For though Thrope was what is known as the “man higher up” in San Francisco at that time, I wasa member in good standing of the gamblers who gave the police and the “men higher up” a large share of their graft. It happened that “‘Spike’’ Delaney was what is known as the ‘‘boss”’ of the under- world; and Delaney was a hard-fisted, in- dependent fellow who, though hand in glove with Thrope, yet stood on his own two. feet and could not be worked over like putty to any purpose that did not appeal to him. Delaney liked me; and Delaney—who was just about as square as a man of his position could be; which means little more than that he was square with the people he liked—would have thrown a wrench into the wheels of any ordinary frame-up designed to stow me in San Quentin. I seldom played in tenderloin dives. There were two or three up-town “clubs,” known on the q.t. to sporty rich men and their sons, and especially to tourists, where I sat in usually. And I must pause here to say that I did not always or even frequently cheat. I gambled first because I liked it, only secondarily to make a modest living. There is no sport in sure-thing gambling; I mean there is no thrill, none of the thrilling impact of bluff and luck as one studies the inscrutable face across the table and wonders whether to call or raise, or do neither. I must say here, too, though perhaps I shall not generally be believed, that I stacked and dealt from the bottom more times for the benefit of fellows who knew nothing about how their luck had changed than ever I did for myself. Despite what many wise card players maintain, a deck can be stacked in the shuffle—if there are not more than three, or at the most four, players; but in a half- dozen riffles of the cards I can put a good hand at the bottom and deal it at will though the eyes of twenty men are on me. There is no way to tell when a good man is actually dealing from the bottom. There is one way to tell when he actually is not: that is, if he holds the deck, as most people do—and professional gamblers never, unless under suspicion—with the forefinger of the left hand pressed against the front, and not the side—where the other three fingers are—of the deck. It happened that Delaney one afternoon asked me to sit in at a certain table in the back of his saloon. Some friends of his had told him they were bringing on a “live one”; and as Delaney’s best houseman was on a periodical drunk, I was requested to make sure that the fellow’s fat pocketbook did not leave with him. Delaney had made a similar request two or three times before. It was pretty well known that when the houseman went on a bat I would take his place. The table was put apart in a little private room. ‘Two other men, strangers to me, but O. K.’d by Delaney, sat in the game; then a fellow, a regular Delaney come-on, brought in the “live one’— a Mr. Smith, the name evidently being taken as a con- venience for a little fling at high life. IT TOOK me just about three 7 hands to discover that there were only two poker players at that Whoever had picked Mr. Smith table. for a sucker, a greenhorn, had made a monumental mistake. I knew it the minute I saw him pick up the deck. He tried to be awkward enough in the shuffle, but the position of his fingers as he dealt made me cautious about putting much faith in the three fair queens that came into my hand. He played with that cool, steely quality that marks the real gambler and can not be assumed: tt comes only after years of tense play, and to some men not even then. , I drew to the three queens, of course, although it cost a neat little sum, for every- body was staying. I was presented with two fives—flip, flip, just like that. Smith helped himself to three cards. It doesn’t make any difference what the others drew. A modest bet was made on my right. It was up to me to call, raise or quit. I carelessly tossed my hand away—and caught the expression in Smith’s eyes as he saw me do it. I had wanted to see his face—not his hand. But I saw the hand anyway. Smith threw it away—face up—and disclosed a pair of tens. He had palmed whatever else had been used to strengthen the hand, if indeed he had not relied on the fellow comicbooks.c¢o