HENRY GUY CARLETON
THE THOMPSON STREET POKER CLUB
SOME CURIOUS POINTS IN THE NOBLE GAME UNFOLDED
When Mr. Tooter Williams entered the gilded halls of the ThompsonStreet Poker Club Saturday evening it was evident that fortune hadsmeared him with prosperity. He wore a straw hat with a blue ribbon,an expression of serene content, and a glass amethyst on his thirdfinger whose effulgence irradiated the whole room and made the enviouseyes of Mr. Cyanide Whiffles stand out like a crab's. Besides theseextraordinary furbishments, Mr. Williams had his mustache waxedto fine points and his back hair was precious with the luster andrichness which accompany the use of the attar of Third Avenue rosescombined with the bear's grease dispensed by basement barbers on thatfashionable thoroughfare.
In sharp contrast to this scintillating entrance was the coming ofthe Reverend Mr. Thankful Smith, who had been disheveled by the heat,discolored by a dusty evangelical trip to Coney Island, and oppressedby an attack of malaria which made his eyes bloodshot and enriched hisrespiration with occasional hiccoughs and that steady aroma which issaid to dwell in Weehawken breweries.
The game began at eight o'clock, and by nine and a series of two-pairhands and bull luck Mr. Gus Johnson was seven dollars and a nickelahead of the game, and the Reverend Mr. Thankful Smith, who wasbanking, was nine stacks of chips and a dollar bill on the wrong sideof the ledger. Mr. Cyanide Whiffles was cheerful as a cricket over fourwinnings amounting to sixty-nine cents; Professor Brick was calm, andMr. Tooter Williams was gorgeous and hopeful, and laying low for thefirst jackpot, which now came. It was Mr. Whiffles's deal, and feelingthat the eyes of the world were upon him, he passed around the cardswith a precision and rapidity which were more to his credit than the I.O. U. from Mr. Williams which was left over from the previous meeting.
Professor Brick had nine high and declared his inability to make anopening.
Mr. Williams noticed a dangerous light come into the Reverend Mr.Smith's eye and hesitated a moment, but having two black jacks and apair of trays, opened with the limit.
"I liffs yo' jess tree dollahs, Toot," said the Reverend Mr. Smith,getting out the wallet and shaking out a wad.
Mr. Gus Johnson, who had a four flush and very little prudence, camein. Mr. Whiffles sighed and fled.
Mr. Williams polished the amethyst, thoroughly examining a scratch onone of its facets, adjusted his collar, skinned his cards, stealthilyglanced again at the expression of the Reverend Mr. Smith's eye, andsaid he would "Jess--jess call."
Mr. Whiffles supplied the wants of the gentlemen from the pack withthe mechanical air of a man who had lost all hope in a hereafter. Mr.Williams wanted one card, the Reverend Mr. Smith said he'd take aboutthree, and Mr. Gus Johnson expressed a desire for a club, if it was nottoo much trouble.
Mr. Williams caught another tray, and, being secretly pleased, led outby betting a chip. The Reverend Mr. Smith uproariously slammed down astack of blue chips and raised him seven dollars.
Mr. Gus Johnson had captured the nine of hearts and so retired.
Mr. Williams had four chips and a dollar left.
"I sees dat seven," he said impressively, "an' I humps it ten mo'."
"Whar's de c'lateral?" queried the Reverend Mr. Smith calmly, but withaggressiveness in his eye.
Mr. Williams sniffed contemptuously, drew off the ring, and depositedit in the pot with such an air as to impress Mr. Whiffles with the ideathat the jewel must have been worth at least four million dollars. ThenMr. Williams leaned back in his chair and smiled.
"Whad yer goin' ter do?" asked the Reverend Mr. Smith, deliberatelyignoring Mr. Williams's action.
Mr. Williams pointed to the ring and smiled.
"Liff yo' ten dollahs."
"On whad?"
"Dat ring."
"_Dat_ ring?"
"Yezzah." Mr. Williams was still cool.
"Huh!" The Reverend Mr. Smith picked the ring up, examined itscientifically with one eye closed, dropped it several times as if totest its soundness, and then walked across and rasped it several timesheavily on the window pane.
"Whad yo' doin' dat for?" excitedly asked Mr. Williams.
A double rasp with the ring was the Reverend Mr. Smith's only reply.
"Gimme dat jule back!" demanded Mr. Williams.
The Reverend Mr. Smith was now vigorously rubbing the setting of thestone on the floor.
"Leggo dat sparkler," said Mr. Williams again.
The Reverend Mr. Smith carefully polished off the scratches by rubbingthe ring awhile on the sole of his foot. Then he resumed his seat andput the precious thing back into the pot. Then he looked calmly at Mr.Williams, and leaned back in his chair as if waiting for something.
"Is yo' satisfied?" said Mr. Williams, in the tone used by men who havesustained a deep injury.
"Dis is pokah," said the Reverend Mr. Thankful Smith.
"I rised yo' ten dollahs," said Mr. Williams, pointing to the ring.
"Did yer ever saw three balls hangin' over my do'?" asked the ReverendMr. Smith. "Doesn't yo' know my name hain't Oppenheimer?"
"Whad yo' mean?" asked Mr. Williams excitedly.
"Pokah am pokah, and dar's no 'casion fer triflin' wif blue glass 'njunk in dis yar club," said the Reverend Mr. Smith.
"I liffs yo' ten dollahs," said Mr. Williams, ignoring the insult.
"Pud up de c'lateral," said the Reverend Mr. Smith. "Fo' chips isfohty, 'n a dollah's a dollah fohty, 'n dat's a dollah fohty-fo' cents."
"Whar's de fo' cents?" smiled Mr. Williams, desperately.
The Reverend Mr. Smith pointed to the ring. Mr. Williams roseindignantly, shucked off his coat, hat, vest, suspenders and scarfpin,heaped them on the table, and then sat down and glared at the ReverendMr. Smith.
Mr. Smith rolled up the coat, put on the hat, threw his own out of thewindow, gave the ring to Mr. Whiffles, jammed the suspenders into hispocket, and took in the vest, chips and money.
"Dis yar's buglry!" yelled Mr. Williams.
The Reverend Mr. Smith spread out four eights and rose impressively.
"Toot," he said, "doan trifle wif Prov'dence. Because a man wars tencent grease 'n' gits his july on de Bowery, hit's no sign dat he kinbuck agin cash in a jacker 'n' git a boodle from fo' eights. Yo's nowin yo' shirt sleeves 'n' low sperrets, bud de speeyunce am wallyble.I'se willin' ter stan' a beer an' sassenger, 'n' shake 'n' call itsquar'. De club 'll now 'journ."
* * * * *
Mr. Blaine used to tell this story:
Once in Dublin, toward the end of the opera, Satan was conducting Faustthrough a trap-door which represented the gates of Hades. His Majestygot through all right--he was used to going below--but Faust, who wasquite stout, got only about half-way in, and no squeezing would get himany farther. Suddenly an Irishman in the gallery exclaimed, devoutly,"Thank God, hell is full."
* * * * *
While Mark Twain was ill in London a report that he had died wascirculated. It spread to America and reached Charles Dudley Warner inHartford, Connecticut. Mr. Warner immediately cabled to London to findout if it was really so. The cablegram in some way came directly intothe humorist's hands, and he forthwith cabled the following reply:"Reports of my death greatly exaggerated."