Checkers: A Hard-luck Story

by Henry Blossom

In the van was Checkers' surly acquaintance—surly no longer, but radiant with a smile which extended from ear to ear. Checkers broke from the line, and grabbed him by the arm. "What 's up?" he exclaimed. "What's the yelling about?"

"All bets off," was the glad rejoinder; "the favorite was 'pulled.' The judges are onto a job in the race. It was 'fixed' for Remorse. We all get our money back. Let go—I 'm in a hurry."

Checkers stood as though paralyzed from an actual blow. His eyes were fixed and his lips were colorless. "By the bald-headed, knock-kneed Jove!" he exclaimed, suddenly rousing himself with a vehement gesture; "if my luck ain't—" But he felt it impossible to do the occasion justice.

With a set face and a heavy heart he again lined up behind the stand. In turn he was given his gold piece in exchange for his ticket, but the $400 was gone, to return no more forever.

Under any sudden and crucial misfortune the subsequent action of the average man is largely a matter of temperament. Numbers, no doubt, in Checkers' position would have felt themselves justified in drowning their sorrows in the flowing bowl. Others, with the obstinacy of despair, might 'ave sought, perforce, the smiles of frowning fortune, throwing discretion to the winds, and risking their all at any desperate game chance threw in their way until satiated. A few might have taken their hard luck resignedly, only thankful that it was no worse, and hoping for better luck next time—such are they who, in the end, succeed.

These alternatives occurred to Checkers in turn, and he effected a sort of compromise. He needed a temporary excitement of some sort as a counter-irritant to his nerves. He was tired and hungry, and he decided that his first move would be to get a good supper. He did n't care how good or what it cost—he was tired of practicing economy. But he must have some money; it would hardly do to "spring" the fifty in a restaurant. Ah! Uncle Isaac! Yes, he believed he could pawn the gold piece as he would a watch, and then if luck ever came his way, he would have a chance of redeeming it.

The staid old waiters in a fashionable caf£ smiled that evening as a youthful figure entered with an unaccustomed air, and, seating himself at one of the tables, studied the menu earnestly. A few deft suggestions from one of them, however, put him in the way of a very good supper; and with a pint of Mumm's to wash it down, and a cigarette to top off with, Checkers, for it was he, began to feel that things might have been a bit worse after all. As he stepped into the street, the glaring and impossible posters of a spectacular show at a neighboring theater caught his eye and decided him. Five minutes later he was comfortably seated in the front row of the orchestra chairs, enjoying himself in present forgetfulness of troubles past or troubles to come.

Now, I fear, that to properly do my part, I should here create a dream for Checkers to have had that night, in which Pert, Remorse, a waiter, and a comedian should all take more or less senseless parts. But being somewhat skeptical myself, I was careful to question Checkers on this point, especially when I afterward learned what great things the morrow had in store for him. And, in spite of all precedent, he confessed to the oblivion of "the insensate clod," devoid of dream or premonition, until nine the next morning, when he awoke with a start. With the awakening came a realizing sense of his situation in all its most disheartening phases. His course of the night before now seemed to him the height of idiocy. He reproached himself in no measured terms for having neglected to write to Pert as promised in his telegram. "I ought to have a guardian appointed to look after me," he grumbled to himself. "Think of my blowing myself for wine and the show, with starvation staring me in the face; and then to think of that poor little girl expecting a letter, and not getting it."

He was interrupted by a knock at the door. "A letter for you, Mr. Campbell," said the servant. Taking it from her he recognized the well-known writing of his beloved. He put the letter in his pocket, and, grabbing his hat, started down the stairs. "I 'm too late for breakfast here," he exclaimed; "I 'll go next door to the 'beanery' and get a roll and a cup of coffee. I 've got to play 'em close to my vest now," he sighed. "A dime is nothing when you 've got it, but it 's bigger than a mountain when you have n't; and it won 't be long before I have n't at this rate."

Seated on a little round stool at the corner in the "beanery," he gave his order, and then opened and commenced to read his letter. A newspaper clipping dropped to the floor; he picked it up mechanically, continuing his reading as he did so. Suddenly he began to glance from one to the other rapidly. An instant later he jumped to his feet, and rushed to the window for a better light. It could n't be true—it simply could n't! Yes, yes, it must be; for here was a notice from the public administrator in Baltimore, advertising for him as an heir of Giles Edward Campbell, deceased, who died intestate, etc., etc., and Judge Martin, so Pert said in the letter, had had an inquiry regarding him, with the statement that the only knowledge the authorities had of such a person was based upon a letter found among the effects of the deceased, headed "Eastman Hotel, Hot Springs," beginning "My dear Uncle," and signed "Your affectionate nephew, Edward Campbell." The clerk at the Eastman, when applied to, had reported a memorandum left by Checkers, that any mail which might come for him be forwarded to Clarksville, Ark.; hence this letter to Judge Martin, and hence Pert's knowledge of the matter, as her uncle immediately applied to her for the necessary information.