Argosy All-Story Weekly, April 7, 1928 — page 98: what you’re looking at

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

88 three card monte and faro. A Swiss sailor, a Chileno, and two Mexicans were at poker; a group of Russians, Japanese, and Kanakas were playing the thimble and strap game, which con- sisted in doubling a strap of rawhide and rolling it in a round form. The croupier, a professional from New York, bet six ounces of gold that no man could place a stick of redwood in the loop in the center of the strap without its being caught as the strap was unrolled. Dorsey watched a miner put down his six ounces and promptly lost the hundred dollars. “ My word!” Dorsey exclaimed. Two members of that most ancient and most gambling-loving nation in the world—I mean China—stepped up and lost two hundred more. “My word!” The croupier glanced up at the Eng- lishman. “‘ You want to try your luck, there, Mr. Limejuicer ?”’ “Yes, at an honest game of poker, sir.” The croupier measured the English- man’s height. He likewise recognized in his placid mask that Dorsey might possibly be a member of his own an- cient and dishonorable profession. He refrained from a second retort. Dorsey stepped to the poker table. The deacon from New England was already seated in company with a rat- faced gentleman who, like Dorsey, wore a black frock coat and a beaver hat tipped back over his long curls. The deacon was dressed in miner’s garb. He was a_dyspeptic-looking gentleman with sideburns and a satis- fied grin. “No need of tellin’ you my name,” he said. “I don’t ordinarily indulge in this. My family, you see. One of the old families of Plymouth. But they won’t know. No need of telling you my name. Don’t mention you played with a Plymouth deacon. You understand. The disgrace. “T’m a rich man, but I haven’t lost ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. my head like the parson at Poker Flats. Still a gentleman born—and a pillar of the church—when I get back!” He smiled with much self-satisfaction. “When I get back! H’m. T’ll be a pillar of the community. I'll own that town, by Heaven!” “My name’s Peters,” the rat-eyed man said, measuring Dorsey rather critically. “* My business is assayin’.” ““My name’s Dorsey,” said the Eng- lishman. The deacon likewise was satisfied. “You're in for a good game, sir,” he said. “ Lots to this game, I’ve found out. A matter of psychology. I’m good at that. Ican judge men’s faces. Can spot a man cheating on the other side of the room. I’ve got a nose for it. “Was on the prison board at home. Always put me where I could pounce on a sinner. A gift. Appointed by God to punish sinners, as you might say. ‘They’re afraid of me back there. “Wait till they see me next time. The seafaring part of the town, you know; awful drunkards. With my money [’ll harry them out of the country!” “That reminds me I want some rum,’ Dorsey said. He ordered a bottle and parted with forty dollars’ worth of his dust. The rat-eyed man eyed his bag hungrily, and then began dividing the chips. He turned to the barkeep: “Measure this gent’s gold out, Tim.” He explained to Dorsey: “ Chips are an ounce of dust each, sir.” “ Quite all right.” The deacon’s eyes began to glow. It was going to be a high game. At the next table, a drunk gambler, modulating his voice to the general quiet of the room, offered to stake his weight in gold on the turn of a card. Steve Lukon, the proprietor, heard of this nonsense and came up to the table. “How much do you weigh?” he asked. Gomichooks (E@)