Journegan's Graft
When Stormalong Journegan found that running a saloon in coöperation with the police had its draw-backs, he turned his attention to more lucrative fields.
"It's no use fooling with such fellows as you," he said one day, "you are sharks, pure blood-sucking sharks, you don't give a fellow half a show to make a living. I'm through with you. I'm done. I sell out to-day. Shanahan might be able to stand you off, he's rough, rough as a file and ready to get into trouble. I'm past that stage of the game. I want to live quietly without so much fuss, so much fracas and so much blackmail. I'm going where brains count for as much as trickery and downright rascality. I'm going where there are some educated Yankees, some Northern men of means who can tell a man when they see him—yes, I'm through with you Conchs and crabs."
After delivering himself he spent several days winding up his affairs at the Cayo Huesso, the beautiful white bar at Key West, converted his belongings into cash and took the steamer for Miami, where he arrived in due course of time. He stood upon the deck of the steamer one morning and watched the rising of the Florida Cape to the northward, stood and gazed at the beautiful bay of Biscayne, where the Northern tourists had been flocking during the cold weather to fish and hunt in the bright sunshine of the reef. The bay was full of small craft, yachts of all descriptions thronged the dredged harbour and small boats came and went over the bright coral banks which shone varicoloured a few feet beneath the surface in the glare of the torrid sun. Yes, there was some life here, something more than the dull and sullen Conchs, the voracious grafters of the reef city and the straying ship's passenger. Here was Northern capital, Northern progress.
"It looks very good to me," mused Mr. Journegan as he gazed serenely down from the hurricane deck of the Key West steamer.
They passed several vessels he knew. There was the wrecking-sloop, Sea-Horse of Key West, the Silver Bar, schooner-yacht for charter, and several others. Upon the deck of the wrecker he saw the big black mate, Bahama Bill, sitting smoking his pipe, his muscular shoulders shining like coal in the sunlight, while he rubbed his rheumy eyes, the red-rimmed eyes of a diver in salt water, to see better as he watched the approaching ship. Yes, and there was Captain Smart of the lost Dunn schooner, sitting upon the taffrail fishing. He waved his hand to them as the steamer swung past, the thudding of her paddles drowning his hail of welcome which he called out when abreast.
He landed and made his way to the hotel. He had plenty of money and would live right while he felt like it. There was no reason why he should stint himself in any worldly pleasure. Several thousand dollars would last him some time, and after it was spent—well, he seldom went broke. It was not men of his ability who went broke. Oh, no, money was too easy. He never could see why some people found it hard to get. Get, why it seemed to come to him. He couldn't keep it away. After all, he figured that he must be something of a man to make it so easily when so many strove so hard. Yes, it was brains that made money, brains, not brawn, not toil—foolishness. Well, he was here to see, to watch, to take notice. If there was anything floating about, it was most likely he would pick it up. He couldn't help it.
The gambling-place allowed by the management of the hotel was very well kept. It was surrounded by palms and flowers, and its green tables were made as enticing as human ingenuity allowed. Mr. Journegan found them much to his taste, and as the days slipped by he found that instead of a few thousand dollars in his pockets he had but a scant hundred. He also had a hotel bill running up at something like twenty dollars per day. He awoke slowly to the realization that he must quit the game and hustle for cash. It was about this time that he made the acquaintance of a gentleman from New York who had read much and studied more, deeming the human race a fit problem to devote his mind upon. Mr. Smithe, who insisted that he had an "e" to his name, found the yarns of Journegan much to his liking. The two met upon the hotel verandas and also at the gaming-tables, and after a few days they began to spar for an opening for personal confidences.