“I had just ‘coppered’ $5 on the queen to the intense disgust of a half dozen fellows who were playing her to win, when the ‘nigger’ who kept door came bounding upstairs, three steps at a time, fairly pale in the face, and whispered to the proprietor:
“‘Boss, there’s some men at the door that won’t go away, and say they’ll break the door down if I don’t let ’em in.’
“‘Quick!’ answered the proprietor, ‘open the door and ask ’em to step right up.’ The words were not out of his mouth before he had slipped the bank roll into the safe, gathered all visible chips of the banks, and asked all the players to gather up theirs, stuck the chips into the safe and locked the safe door, saying, ‘Boys, put your chips in your pockets and come around this afternoon and I’ll cash ’em in for you.’ In a flash all evidence of present gaming were wiped out. There were only a couple of tables, a dozen or so players, the proprietor, smiling blandly, and—a policeman in sight.
“In less time than it takes to tell all this the still shivering door-keeper had ushered in three ‘plain clothes’ men from headquarters. At the same time the police officer, in full uniform, who was already in the room—and who had been playing with the rest of us, mind you—edged towards the door so as to seem to have come in with and after the raiding officers. He was the worst frightened man in the crowd. But, with quite remarkable presence of mind, considering the strain on him, the officer in uniform stepped promptly back into the foreground, with a pitying smile on his face, and seizing the beard of the proprietor of the game, said to the raiding officers, who looked as if they wondered where he had come from:
“‘Gentlemen, this Mr. Bud Kirby’—
“‘And sorry I am, gentlemen,’ ‘Bud’ interrupted, with a bow and a smile, ‘to make your acquaintance under such unfavorable circumstances! What will you have to drink?’
“You could have knocked me down with a feather. ‘This then,’ thought I, as all hands stepped up to the sideboard and took a friendly drink; ‘this then, is one of those terrible raids we read so much about!’
“The[“The] players, fortunately for me, were not molested in the least. They melted away into the early morning gloom (it was then about 2 o’clock), and the officers who carted away the cards, the faro layouts and the roulette wheel, melted away to headquarters and made their report, and that afternoon we all went back and Kirby cashed our chips—of course he knew just about how many were out—and everything was lovely. No officer thought of touching the safe which contained the ‘roll,’ the only thing of any great value about the establishment, and nobody suffered any great loss or discomfort. But there wasn’t any more dealing there for a great many months. And maybe the officer in uniform, who was playing there in blissful ignorance that a raid was to be made, didn’t catch it from Kirby for not giving him warning!”
WHAT “PROTECTION” COSTS A GAMBLER.
A few weeks ago, before the spasm of virtue which constricted the public circulation of chips, a New York business man—whose name may be put down as Allan Allriver, being not altogether unlike the same—was approached on Twenty-eighth street by a professional gambler of his acquaintance who had paraded Broadway and hung about the corners until he was almost on his uppers. “Look here, Mr. Allriver,” said the gambler, “let’s you and I open a gambling house. I know of a good ranch on this very street that we can rent cheap, and if you’ll furnish the roll and let me run the game we’ll both make a barrel of money.”