CHAPTER VIII.
NIGGER LOO.
There are gamblers and gamblers, but in the expressed opinion of his Worship they are all thieves. Some affect good manners, society, and clothes, wear genuine diamonds, and claim for themselves the credit of never taking part in a “crooked” transaction, either over the table or away from it. They do not even openly associate with their “cappers,” but leave these sneaks to do the dirty work, paying them a small percentage of the winnings therefor. They follow the “circuit,” attend all the race meetings on both sides of the line, and are looked upon with favor by sporting men. They are lavish in their expenditure and generous to a fault with each other on the street. But alas for their good impulses! Every generous thought fades away more completely than a misty dream when they face each other at the poker table, and when they succeed in roping in a wealthy “sucker,” they become night-hawks indeed, and swoop down on their unsuspecting prey with a force and ferocity that cannot be resisted. All thieves? Aye, cruel, heartless thieves.
There are other gamblers who affect—nothing. Too strongly in love with whisky to have much money, they simply drift on and on until the drunkard’s grave or a government prison affords them a harbor of refuge. And yet, even these poor whisky-soaked half-crazed wretches, who are not possessed of spirit enough to look an honest man in the face, are thieves. They cannot play poker in the “gentleman” gambler’s den, so they repair to the house of a colored man and by their superior skill in manipulating the cards fleece their darker-skinned, but not blacker-hearted brethren, out of the few pieces of silver they succeed in earning during the day.
Yet it is hardly a step from the gambler’s palace to the drunken crook’s den, and when the visitor passes in his tour of inspection from one to the other no feeling of surprise comes over him. The same kind of people are in attendance, are playing poker, and if they have not pat hands lying on their laps it is because they keep them concealed in their vests or down the back of their necks. You know even a gambler is allowed to smooth his shirt-front or adjust his collar when he wishes. The same kind of people, with faces a little more bloated and blotched, perhaps, and the lines showing more clearly the unmistakable
SIGNS OF DISSIPATION
and debauchery, but the very same kind of people. There is no place in the world better adapted for the study of human nature than in the poker room. So the reader may accompany a detective and the writer to one of the most notorious “nigger dives” in the city. It is a queer-looking attic about the size of a large cupboard, and is illuminated in daylight by a four-pane window that commands a picturesque view of outhouses and filthy yards. It is one of those noisome chambers upon the very threshold of which a sensitive person will probably recoil in natural disgust. The paper on the wall, or what remains of it, is discolored and greasy, and the table, once a light oak, has been blackened by the action of time and dirt, the unbrushed sleeves of the gamesters, tobacco smoke, and beer stains. There were five people, two white men and three “coons,” seated at the table when the visitors managed to overcome their first feeling of disgust, and enter the room. Phew! It was worse than executing a search-warrant in a York street junk-shop. They were playing poker, and paid no attention to the detective, when they found he was not followed by a posse of police.
“It’s all right, Slick; only showing a friend of mine around a bit.”
“Good enough, boss; thought as you’se gwine to pull de ranch. Make y’seff to hum.”
That being impossible in so small and filthy a hole, the visitors squeezed themselves as near to the open window as possible, and watched the game. It was evident at a glance that the white men were proficients in the art of cheating, and that the “coons” knew they were exercising their arts, but