NO GOOD AT SHORT CARDS.
Bill couldn't play any short card game. Monte was his hold, and the gamblers knew it. I never knew Bill to play at a short card game that he did not quit loser, and I have known him to play as long as seventy hours at a sitting. One night we were on a boat that was putting off freight at the wharf-boat that lay at the mouth of Red River. Bill was in his element. He had a big pile of money up in front of him, and a large crowd intent on watching the game. Soon I noticed a fellow sitting at Bill's right who was fishing for one of the hundred-dollar bills, trying to coax it over to his side of the house. I waited patiently until he got it, then went around to him and said, "Is that the way you gamble where you live?"
"I don't know what you mean," he said, still holding his hand over the stolen bill. I gave his hand a push, and there lay the bill, which I grabbed. Then turning to Bill, I said, "You would sit here and let these ducks steal all your money. Won't you never drop to anything?"
The fellow was on his feet in a minute, shouting, "That is my money.
I took it out of my pocket and was waiting for a chance to bet it."
"You lie; you were trying to steal it."
Three or four of his friends at that arose, and I knew that war was in sight; so I slipped my big gun into my overcoat pocket, and expected h—l. But just then somebody yelled "Monte!" and the mate coming up, the facts of the case were stated to him, and he said, "Everybody must keep quiet." Bill of course cleaned the crowd out, and reached the wharf-boat with a large roll of the good green stuff; but he did not keep it long, for Jack Armstrong, of Louisville, was lying there in wait for him to play casino at $50 a game.