It was in John Morrissey’s gilded gambling den in West Twenty-fourth Street, New York City, that the above conversation took place. Morrissey was at the zenith of his career, and, though a gambler, he was known to be a friend of the deserving poor. This is not said, however, with a view of putting my stamp of approval on gambling, for my advice to young men is to keep away from the Gilded Palace of the Green Cloth. My warning isn’t backed by personal experience, either. Of a truth I can say that I ever steered clear of the gaming-table.
It was late in the fall of 1867 that Morrissey’s place was first visited by the two Georges, who hung about the tables for the most part of the time in search of information which they could turn to an account in their profession. Not infrequently words were dropped by the wealthy habitués of the den that led to the robbery of a bank or other well-stocked safe.
John Taylor, the young bank clerk being discussed by the Englishmen and the faro dealer, was fast approaching the real danger point in his gambling experience. His fascination for the pool-room and race-track had opened a straight road to Morrissey’s, and at the moment of our introduction to him he had played in the last cent of his salary drawn from the Ocean National Bank that very day. His face was pale but for a patch of deep crimson in the centre of each cheek. He was about to move from the table when the faro dealer and the two Georges approached him.
“Hard luck, Mr. Taylor?” asked the dealer.
“The worst I could possibly have,” said the young man, gnawing at his feverish lips. A few words of the commonplace sort ensued, and then the dealer, having adroitly brought it about, introduced the Englishmen. Presently Taylor and the two Georges were alone at a table, drinking, the former not having the slightest knowledge that the motive for seeking the introduction was an ulterior one. As innocent was the faro dealer.
“We were watching your play,” explained Chelsea after a little, “and although we don’t know much about the game, we concluded that your system was a good one if pushed to the limit. It’s new, isn’t it, Mr. Taylor?”
As a matter of fact, Taylor had played no so-called system, and at the moment was thinking of nothing but that he had lost upon plunging his all. Until then he had been winning. Like thousands of other fools who gamble, he believed his luck had come to stay until he could regain all he’d lost in other days. He placed his pile of winnings and his week’s salary on one card. In an instant he saw it all vanish.
“I haven’t any system,” he answered Chelsea, nervously pulling at his slim black mustache, “but one thing I know well—I’m cleaned out!”
“Pardon me, old chap!” Chelsea George said, placing his hand on Taylor’s shoulder in an affectionate manner, “but I was once in a fix like yours, and not so long ago either. I wasn’t sorry when a friend like Mr. Wales here came along.”
English George smiled benignly at this, and Chelsea continued: “He loaned me a few hundred, and they came just in season. Now if I could be of any service to you, I’d consider it in the light of a favor to me.”