Poker Jim, Gentleman, and Other Tales and Sketches

by G. Frank Lydston

There was a grim irony, and yet, withal, a tinge of comedy, in the farewell treat of fiery liquor with which the management bowed out its ruined guests—bowed them out of the den of iniquity and into a slough of despond from which they oft-times never emerged—on this side of eternity.

I was standing one evening in “The Palace”—a gambling den with the usual appurtenances of tributary and dependent vice—curiously watching the movements of the dealer at one of the numerous faro games. Every table was crowded with players and surrounded by spectators, some of whom, like myself, were mere curiosity seekers, but most of them being devotees of the shrine of the goddess, Chance, who were impatiently awaiting the occurrence of a vacancy at the table—when a bankrupt player should make way for fatter victims.

Sitting just opposite the dealer was a young lad, who could not have been more than seventeen years of age, betting away with a recklessness that would have done credit to a millionaire. The youngster was evidently flushed with liquor and laboring under the highest degree of excitement.

Standing just behind the boy, was a woman—evidently of the under world—who, it was easy to see, was influencing his betting. Whether this creature was giving direct advice and encouragement or not, I cannot say, but the lad was certainly trying to appear as brave and recklessly extravagant as possible, for the apparent purpose of impressing the woman. The furtive glance which the dealer exchanged with his charming “capper” now and then, was sufficient to enable even one of my limited experience, to form a correct conclusion as to the status of affairs.

Just opposite me and almost directly behind the dealer, stood a man who, I was certain, had been studying my face from time to time ever since I had taken my place among the spectators of the game. A stealthy glance at my vis à vis when he happened to be watching the boy’s playing—which seemed to be dividing his attention with myself—revealed a person of most striking appearance and unique individuality.

Apparently about twenty-five years of age, judging by his heavy black moustache and mature development; a tall, athletic figure; long curling locks of jet black hair hanging loosely down over his shoulders; eyes as black as sloes and as piercing as those of a hawk—the stranger was indeed a handsome and most picturesque character. His closely buttoned coat of fashionable cut, small, neat boots, and surmounting all, his broad-brimmed hat, made him even more striking, if possible. I glanced at his hands and noted that they were well formed, and of a color that indicated bath gentility and a life in which manual labor bore no part.

As I stole a second glance at the handsome stranger, our eyes met, and I fancied that he started slightly. He glanced away quickly, but as the boy in whom he appeared to take such an interest was apparently getting pretty near the end of his funds, I concluded that the unknown’s emotion—if indeed he had really displayed any—was due to the evident bad luck of his unconscious protegé. It was plain to me that he was interested in the boy, for there was an expression about the corners of his mouth, and an almost tender gleam in his eyes, that could not be mistaken by any one who possessed even a fair ability in character reading.

I knew not why the picturesque stranger interested me, but there seemed to be some indefinable attraction about him, which caused me to forget the game and watch him as closely as I could without risk of giving offense. As our eyes met, I experienced a peculiar sense of mutual recognition, and yet it was seemingly impossible, or at least, highly improbable, that we had ever met before.

But the occurrences of the next few minutes entirely diverted my mind for the time being from the question of recognition.

The poor, foolish boy soon exhausted his money, and vacated his place at the unholy altar. I saw him whisper to the female, in whose company he evidently was, and apparently request her to step aside with him. She did so, and they stood for some time in earnest, confidential discussion of a subject which their gestures made all too apparent. The bird was plucked, his charms were gone, and he was not only refused a “stake” wherewith to possibly retrieve his losses, but the light of his first romance was extinguished forever—or until he had procured more money, which, to the woman’s mind, probably amounted to the same thing.