TIMIDITY OF PROFESSIONAL GAMBLERS.
In various chapters throughout this work, I have related experiences of my own in which I have exhibited myself in the light of being naturally rather timid. I do not think that my inborn proclivities were towards physical[physical] cowardice, however much they may have inclined me toward vice. The truth is, that “conscience doth make cowards of us all.” A few incidents in my own career may serve to illustrate the truth of this principle.
I was once playing poker with a partner and a stranger. My confederate and myself had succeeded in winning a large amount of money from the greenhorn who had been rash enough to try his luck against us. Success had so far emboldened me that I lost all regard for ordinary prudence. I dealt the greenhorn four kings and gave myself four aces. He was irritated in no small degree by his losses and determined to bring matters to a focus. When he looked at his cards and saw that he had four kings, he drew a Remington six shooter from his pocket, and laying it upon the table announced his intention of shooting any man at the board who had a hand to beat his. My partner was struck with terror and signalled me to allow the man to win. I felt rather uneasy myself, but determined that if I must die I would at least pass out of this life with the best grace possible under the circumstances. Looking at my adversary with a bland expression I said, in dulcet tones, “you don’t mean before the draw, do you, sir? I would rather look for a free lunch than for a fight any day.” This remark appeared to mollify him somewhat, and I asked him how many cards he wanted. He looked at me grimly and said, “None.” “Well,” said I, “I believe that I shall have to take two.” Having said this, I discarded two aces, drawing in exchange the first two chance cards which happened to lie upon the top of pack. Of course, this ruined my hand, but I am inclined even to this day, to believe that it saved my life.
“OLD BLACK DAN.”
I recall another incident which illustrates the same principle. In almost every country town there are many men who like to be regarded as “sports.” They consider themselves champion card players, and are fully convinced of their own ability to get the best of any stranger who may put in an appearance. When they find that they have “caught a Tartar” and are losing money, they not infrequently resort to the expedient of calling in some local bully, whose brawny arms and ponderous fists may accomplish, through brute force, what they have failed to effect through skill. I once found an illustration of this fact in a small Missouri village.[village.] I was playing poker in a room at the hostelry, with about as unsavory a lot of country “bummers” as it was ever my bad fortune to meet. Among them were men whose physiognomy indicated that for many years they had held their own through the aid of sling shots, jimmies and other “implements of modern warfare.” The nose and cheeks of most of them testified to their devotion to the pleasures of the wine cup,—or perhaps I should say their fondness for the consumption of corn whiskey. I was playing with marked cards, and was gradually but surely winning all their money. Their disgust knew no bounds. It was not long before there entered upon the scene an American citizen of African descent upon whose ebony skin charcoal would have made a white mark. His scarred and battered face gave him the appearance of a veteran of the prize ring who had returned home for purposes of recuperation and repairs. He modestly took his seat in a corner of the room, and half closing his eyes began to sing this plaintive ditty:
“Give me some of dat, or I’ll brok up your game,
I guess you ‘gams.’ knows who I is.
Old Black Dan—dat is my name;
If you ’siders me in, go on with your biz.”
I had heard of “old black Dan” from men of my profession who had visited the same town before. He was an amateur prize-fighter, who, with proper training, might have made his mark as an athlete. To pick a quarrel with him was the last ambition that I had on earth. I thought it was best to meet him on his own ground. Accordingly, I counted up the value of the pile of chips which I had before me, in order that I might know just how the game stood at the moment of his entrance. Without betraying any apparent emotion, I began to sing the following impromptu doggerel: