CHAPTER XII.

LOCAL GAMBLING.

Like all kindred vices, gambling flourishes best in large cities.

Centres of commerce are also centres of speculation, and the man whose

brain has been busy all day in the consideration of perplexing problems

of trade finds it easy to transfer the theatre of his ventures from the

counting room to the gambling hell. There is, besides, a class of

men,—and notably of men engaged in the learned professions—who claim

that they find at the faro or poker table a relaxation and a healthful

amusement. It is unnecessary to point out the fallacy of such a view.

Any recreation the nature of which is to stimulate some of the most

ignoble of the passions that sway the human heart, to debauch the morals

and to work the ruin of those who have resort to it, can scarcely be

characterized as legitimate, far less as innocent or healthful.

Moreover, the transient population in every metropolitan city is

enormous, and strangers are regarded by professional sharpers as their

peculiar prey. The holding of a fair, the assembling of an encampment,

in a word, the gathering of any great crowd draws gamblers to a town as

a carcass attracts vultures. Hence it is that the gambling element

becomes a power, both pecuniary and political, in large cities.

Professional cheats are numerous; they band themselves together for

purposes both offensive and defensive, and their cunning is matched only

by their rapacity. None know better than they that it is entirely within

the power of the municipal authorities to prevent the successful conduct

of their nefarious calling. It follows that they must have a tacit

understanding with the latter, in order that they may enjoy what they

denominate “police protection.” In other words, officials sworn to

enforce the laws must be induced to “protect” those who openly violate

them! The influences brought to bear to accomplish this end are

multiform, but may be resolved into three general categories. Money is

freely used, and the acceptance of a bribe places the receiver within

the power of the payer; political influence is also employed, liberal

subscriptions being made to the campaign funds of both parties, but

besides these two agencies there is yet a third. The professional

gambler has an intimate acquaintance with the criminal classes; he knows

their movements and their haunts, and more than one arrest which the

public considers as “unusually clever” is made upon information given to

the detectives by men who are willing to hand over a friend to the

gallows in consideration of their own immunity from interference. The

statements regarding local gambling contained in this chapter are in

part based upon the personal knowledge and in part upon trustworthy

information derived from authentic sources.

GAMBLING IN CHICAGO.

Among the most prominent gamblers in Chicago in the early ’40’s were

George C. Rhodes, the Smith brothers—George, Charles and Montague—Conant

(familiarly known as “King Cole,”) John Sears, Cole Martin, Walt

Winchester, Blangy and Curtis. Some of these men lasted until a few

years ago, but I believe that at present few of them survive. The last

one to conduct business in Chicago was George (nick-named “One-Lung”)

Smith, who not many years ago ran a handsomely equipped establishment on

State street, opposite the Palmer House. He was a gambler of the old

school, fond of “high rolling,” and fearless even to recklessness. On

leaving Chicago he went to New York, where he passed through all the

varying vicissitudes of a gambler’s life. One day a run of luck filled

his coffers to overflowing; perhaps within a week his losses had reduced

him almost to penury. He died gambling on borrowed capital; using money

loaned him by men who retained confidence in him because of their

knowledge of his abstemious habits and his long (if unsuccessful)

experience.

In those early days faro had not attained its present popularity, and in

some houses whole days might pass without anything but “short games”

being played. In the latter case, however, ten per cent of the stakes

went to the proprietors as a percentage, or “rake-off” due the house.

Brag, poker, seven-up, cribbage and even whist were favorites, and in

some rooms chess, checkers and backgammon were occasionally played, the

proprietors, however, invariably receiving their stipulated proportion

of the wagers. The roulette wheel did not make its appearance until

after 1850, and hazard, “stud” poker, the “big wheel,” twenty one,

rouge-et-noir, the “squeeze spindle” and high ball poker are of

comparatively recent introduction.

John Sears was another of the “old time sports,” whose commanding

figure, attired richly but in perfect taste, was formerly a familiar

figure upon Chicago streets. He was a singularly handsome man, of jovial

and generous temperament, and with faultless manners, the latter

characteristic being perhaps partially traceable to his French descent.

Possessed of a fair education, he was very fond of reading, and was well

versed in the writings of the standard poets. He adored Shakespeare and

worshipped Burns. He was an entertaining conversationalist, and was fond

of interspersing choice and apt poetical quotations with funny stories,

of which he had an inexhaustible fund. His friends (and their roll

numbered many, outside gamblers’ ranks) loved him dearly. He enjoyed the

reputation of being a thoroughly “square” player, and though he died

poor, his demise was widely and sincerely lamented.

“King” Cole (Conant) was endowed with some of the same traits as was

Sears, and popular among his associates. He played boldly and won

heavily, but spent his winnings lavishly. In 1852, in company with Cole

Martin, he went to St. Paul, where they opened one of the earliest

gambling houses in that city. The firm prospered, but having squandered

their gains in riotous living, returned to Chicago, comparatively

penniless. There Conant died, a financial, physical and moral wreck.

“Skin” gamblers came to Chicago at a very early period in the city’s

history. At first they conducted no regular houses, but dealt banking

games at various places, as opportunity offered, paying ten per cent. of

their winnings to the owners of the rooms used. It was not long,

however, before this class of professionals began to find for themselves

permanent locations. For many years, and even down to the mayoralty of

“Long John” Wentworth, patrons of the race courses were familiar with

the faces of H. Smith, Bill McGraw, Dan Oaks, “Dutch” House and “Little

Dan” Brown. Roulette and chuck-a-luck were run in full blast at these

gatherings, and “Dutch” House was considered as particularly skillful in

conducting “the old army game.”

All these men have passed away. With the exception of one who died at

Milwaukee possessed of some property, their “last end was worse than the

first.” Bill McGraw died of delirium tremens, and “Little Dan” Brown

ended his days in the poorhouse.

Gambling became more and more open, and the ranks of professionals were

swelled, year by year, until at length the business was conducted with

scarcely a pretence of concealment. This was the state of affairs when

“Long John” Wentworth was elected mayor for the first time. He at once

inaugurated a policy of reform. His first crusade was against swinging

signs and other street obstructions, a vast number of which were

“gathered in” during one night and piled in one heap at the corner of

Lake and State Streets. The next morning the _Democrat_ (the mayor’s

paper) announced that all persons who had lost property of this

description the preceding night would find it at that locality.

Claimants began to appear early, and each and all were promptly and

impartially fined under the city ordinance.

The gamblers began to feel apprehensive. Wentworth warned them through

the columns of the _Democrat_ that they would be the next victims of the

besom of reform, but long immunity made them incredulous. They were not

left long in doubt as to the sincerity of the mayor’s intentions. One

warm summer afternoon he opened his war of extermination by sending two

policemen to visit Burrough’s establishment, which was in a building on

Randolph Street, standing on the present site of Epstean’s Dime Museum.

The officers climbed upon an adjacent roof and gained entrance to the

rooms through the rear windows on the second floor, which they found

open and unguarded. They proceeded leisurely, and captured no one but

the dealer, who tarried to secure the contents of his cash drawer. The

players incontinently fled down the stairs, at the foot of which they

rushed into the arms of a cordon of police, behind whom towered the

gigantic frame of “Long John” himself. He it was who headed the mournful

procession that wended its way to the calaboose in the basement of the

Court House, encouraging the drooping spirits of the gamesters by

insuring them in stentorian tones, and in language more forcible than

elegant, that he “intended to teach them a lesson that they would

remember.” He personally superintended the booking and locking up of the

prisoners, and announced that if any person holding a city license

appeared to offer bail for any one of them, the license would be

summarily revoked. This threat was leveled particularly at saloon

keepers and hackmen, whom Wentworth cordially detested, and between whom

and the gamblers there existed the warmest friendship.

An exciting episode of the raid was the appearance at the calaboose of

an attorney, “Charley” (now Colonel) Cameron, who demanded an interview

with a client—one of the four Smith brothers, all of whom were in the

lock-up. His request was refused, and going outside he attempted to hold

a consultation through the grated window. The watchful eye of the mayor

espied him. “What are you doing there, you —— rascal?” fairly shrieked

His Honor. “Get away, I tell you; get away!” Cameron replied that he was

exercising the right of an attorney in consulting a client. Angered

beyond endurance, Wentworth rushed at him. “Don’t you dare to touch me,”

shouted Cameron. “Oh, no; Oh, no” yelled the mayor; and grasping the

attorney with a vise-like grip, he forced him into the city prison,

never relaxing his hold until he had seen him safely placed behind the

bars.

All these proceedings may have been the very acme of arbitrariness, but

they are worth recounting, as showing how raids were conducted under the

first administration of “Long John.” Everything found in the rooms was

confiscated, and when the tenants returned they found only bare walls

and a carpetless floor. The proprietors plead guilty and were fined

heavily. The “inmates” appealed to a higher court and were each mulcted

in the sum of twenty-five dollars and costs; the total expense of each

player, including attorney’s fees, being about sixty dollars. Cameron

caused the arrest of the mayor for assault and false imprisonment, but

the case never came to trial.

Thus ended the first, and, up to the present time, the only raid upon a

Chicago gambling house conducted by the city’s chief executive in

person. It proved one of the most effective known to history. Open

gambling ceased at once, and the “hole-and-corner” variety of the vice

was soon hunted out. Banking games were no longer to be found, and the

few poker rooms that were started in out-of-the-way places were speedily

discovered, raided, and forced to close. Occasionally a game of faro was

dealt; Saturday night being the time usually selected and the game

lasting until well-nigh into Sunday morning; but when an adjournment was

had, it was “sine die,” and no two consecutive games were played at the

same place.

It must be remembered that all this occurred before the beginning of the

present era of club life, which has done so much to pervert the morals,

if not to overturn the foundations of society. It is a notorious fact

that the heaviest play in Chicago to-day may be found in the most

aristocratic and exclusive clubs. The police, of course, are not aware

of it. Every man in Chicago doing business in what is known as the

“Board of Trade district” has heard of the existence of a small club,

whose membership is chiefly composed of operators on the floor of

’Change, and most men about town know where it is located. The

appointments of the rooms while not luxurious, are of simple elegance

and the cuisine and _buffet_ are said to be matchless. Stories are

current of fabulous sums having been lost and won across the tables in

this exclusive resort. It is charitable to suppose that the authorities

lack either the knowledge or the legal power to interfere with the

gambling here conducted. However this may be, the fact remains that the

patrol wagons laden with blue-coated officers of the law rattle over the

stones beneath its very windows, intent upon proving at once their

watchfulness and their fidelity by arresting a half-score of Mongolians

for indulging in “fan tan,” or “running in” a dozen negroes who may be

found “throwing craps.”

Still, even before the days when Wentworth reigned autocrat of Chicago,

and even during his administration, there existed in the city a club,

composed of choice spirits selected from both the professional and

commercial walks of life. Among its shining lights were such men as

Doctor Egan, Maxwell, Maxmire, Judge Meeker, Justice Lamb, Judge Wilson,

Col. Carpenter, “Bob” Blackwell, and a host of other men equally well

known in their day. Politics and religious creeds were forgotten.

Relaxation, unrestrained social intercourse, and mental improvement were

nominally the objects sought. At the same time often a game of brag was

played. This was the favorite pastime, although poker had its devotees;

whist held its own, while cribbage, and even old sledge, were not too

plebian amusements. Games were sometimes played for high stakes, among

the most venturesome players being Egan, Maxwell and Carpenter.

At these gatherings hilarity was unbounded. Thomas F. Marshall, of

Kentucky, during one summer that he spent in Chicago was wont to charm

the members with his oratory, logic, wisdom and wit; John Brougham, E.

L. Davenport, and James E. Murdock, famous the world over for their

histrionic talent, were frequent and welcomed guests. Of these perhaps

the former was somewhat the favorite with the members. He wrote a poem

addressed to Egan’s daughter, and dedicated a book to the doctor:

[In this connection, it may not be amiss to repeat a well authenticated

story of Murdock, which has come down as a tradition from the days when

the club flourished. The members took their guest to the race course to

see Chicago’s favorite win. So elated was the crowd over the triumphs

that champagne flowed like the pent up rivulet bursting through a rocky

chasm. That evening Murdock was to play Claude Melnotte. When he

undertook to recite the description of the palace by the lake of Como

his articulation became thick and indistinct. Recognizing the demands of

the situation the great tragedian hurriedly bowed himself off the stage.

His place before the foot-lights was promptly taken by Manager

McFarland, who, in tones of the severest courtesy, apologized for the

“sudden and unaccountable (sic) illness of Mr. Murdock,” in consequence

of which he craved the indulgence of the audience during the few moments

necessary for him to consume in dressing, when he, himself, would assume

the part. Assent having been secured, McFarland finished the role to a

crowded if not over-critical house.]

Keno was just beginning to grow into favor with the gaming public at the

time when Mayor Wentworth so ruthlessly suppressed the vice. Some of the

games were “square;” others “brace.” The latter were at first conducted

by “Billy” Buck, and later by “Ed” Simpson. Both men were fond of drink,

and the games were run in meanly furnished rooms in localities ill

suited to their successful operation.

The gambling fraternity, recognizing in Wentworth a foe who could be

neither cajoled, bribed, nor intimidated, began, with practical

unanimity, either to look for some other walk of life in which they

might exercise their peculiar talents, or to seek localities where the

head of the city government was more amenable to “reason.”

“Long John” was succeeded by Mayor Haynes, and the hydra-headed monster

once more began to lift its head from the seclusion into which it had

been forced. In other words the gamblers determined to see whether the

new city administration was to be controlled by the same influences and

actuated by the same principles as had been its predecessor. Slowly they

felt their way. At first Daniels, Avery, Sears, and Winchester opened

their houses in a quiet and unobtrusive manner. Other members of the

fraternity, finding that these were not molested, followed suit, and

during several successive administrations, down to the time of Medill,

everything was smooth sailing. Raids were of infrequent occurrence, and

altogether farcical in their character. They appeared to be conducted

not so much with a view of suppressing the vice or injuring the business

of the houses raided, as for the purpose of raising a sort of indirect

tax, or levying an illegal assessment. No one ever thought of destroying

the personal property found in the resorts, and the fines imposed were

usually very light. In fact, so little attention was paid to them that

the proprietors were wont to admit the officers with the utmost

cheerfulness; and when a hell was “pulled” hacks were at once called

into requisition and the dealers and players rode together to the office

of the nearest police magistrate, where bail was at once accepted, and

the party again entering their carriages, returned to the rooms and

resumed play. Of course, under such a _regime_, gambling houses

multiplied rapidly, and to attempt an enumeration of the resorts or of

their keepers would occupy too much space. A few of the more prominent,

however, may be mentioned. These were the Smiths, Holland, Howland,

Scott, Robbins, Lawler, Holt, Jones, Bachelor, McDonald, Martin,

Walpole, Cameron, Dowling, Peters, Page, Hynes, Wicks, Blanga, Curtis,

Wallace, Buchanan, Kellogg, Bowers, Taylor, Donaldson, Corcoran, Nellis

Adams, Daniels, Hugh Dunn, Dutch Charley, Cy Janes, H. Jeff & Co.,

Hankins, H. Smith, and Beach.

One of the best known houses during this period was that of Theo.

Cameron, at the Northeast corner of Clark and Madison Streets. Fred

White was employed as dealer. The profits of the establishment were very

large, owing to the fact that the proprietor employed competent

“steerers,” who found little difficulty in securing dupes, whom he was

fond of calling “fat suckers.” But Cameron was a man who, had he made a

hundred thousand dollars in a night, would have contrived to get rid of

it during the next twenty-four hours, even if he had to burn it up.

Among his compeers he was known as “a bad man from Texas and handy with

a gun.” One evening several “tough” citizens, among whom was a recent

graduate from the State institution at Joliet, dropped into his place

and lost all the money which they had. Meeting a friend on the outside,

the latter informed them that they had undoubtedly been “skinned.” After

holding a council of war they concluded to return to the place and

demand that their money be returned to them. Accordingly, the three went

up stairs, and while two stationed themselves at the door, the ex-

convict entered the apartment, pistol in hand, and demanded the money.

While the dealer was endeavoring to placate him, Cameron entered the

place and took in the situation at a glance. Stealing, with cat-like

step, to the sideboard, he took a revolver from one of the drawers and

opened fire on the intruder, wounding him at the first shot. A mutual

fusillade followed, which continued until the victim dropped dead.

Cameron promptly surrendered himself, but when his trial occurred, found

no difficulty in securing abundant evidence that he had acted strictly

in self-defense.

Subsequently the same man opened a “brace” game at 68 Randolph Street.

The place was expensively furnished, and was conducted on a scale of

prodigal extravagance. The “sporting” fraternity knew it as a “bird

house.” The lodging rooms were fitted up most luxuriously, and were

always at the disposal of the guests and employes. The sideboard was

stocked with the choicest liquors, and with cigars of the finest brands,

while the wines were the best the market afforded. “Dr.” Ladd was

Cameron’s partner, owning a half interest in the house, and it was his

duty to supervise this part of the business. Notwithstanding all this

lavish outlay, the house made a great deal of money; yet when the hells

were again closed and the gamblers forced to seek other fields of

action, Cameron was so poor that he left the city with scarcely five

hundred dollars in his pocket.

“Colonel Wat” Cameron ran a house at 167 Randolph Street. It enjoyed the

reputation of being a “square” game, and was liberally patronized by a

good class of players. He finally came to grief, it is said, through the

machinations of “Gabey” Foster and “Old Ben” Burnish, who, however,

allowed him a percentage of the winnings. They made a great deal of

money there and in other parts of the city.

“Gabey” Foster, whose name is mentioned above, was not well liked by the

fraternity at large, who regarded him as a decidedly mean specimen of

humanity. He became a confirmed victim of the opium habit, and “hitting

the pipe” at last brought him to his death. His brain became affected,

and while at Little Rock, Arkansas, he wandered away into the woods,

where his body was found frozen stiff. His paramour sent for his remains

and gave them a decent interment.

Another noted “brace” dealer of those times was a man known as “Jew”

Hyman. He possessed a fine physique, and a mind of more than average

capacity. He was fond of playing against the bank in other houses, and

found no difficulty in scattering his winnings. He was much devoted to

all the pleasures of sense; a high liver and fond of women. He married a

notorious courtesan some thirty years ago. He died in a West Side

Chicago lodging house, broken down in health, and with a disordered

brain, and was buried by the woman to whose fortunes he had linked his

own, and who had supported him for many years.

In 1863 the city received a new influx of “skin” gamblers, some of whom

are still residents of Chicago, but not at present actively engaged in

the practice of their “profession.” As tending to illustrate the

characteristics of a certain class of “brace” dealers, and as serving to

show the depth of degradation to which the gambling vice will sometimes

sink its votaries, the following incident may prove not only

interesting, but instructive. The story is literally true, only the

names of the actors being withheld. The gang of sharpers who came to

this city in 1863 was one of the most unscrupulous that has ever cursed

any city. They commenced operations as “ropers in” for the most

disreputable resorts. It was their custom to gain access to the hallways

of gaming houses in which players were allowed some little chance of

winning, and turn out the gas. As soon as a visitor appeared, some

member of the coterie would inform him that the place was closed for the

night, and at once “steer” him to some hole where he was certain to be

shamelessly plundered. At length, one of them contrived to become

proprietor of a small den, which his fellows at once made their

headquarters, and where “suckers” were robbed without the slightest

regard to even the semblance of decency.

Among the visitors to this place was a man who occupied a position of

high trust in a well known private corporation. The keeper of the hell

assiduously cultivated his friendship, and easily won his money. He then

insinuated into the mind of his dupe the belief that his only hope of

recovering his losses was to plunge still deeper into the game. Step by

step the unfortunate man fell. Knowing the combination of the company’s

vault, it was easy for him to gain an entrance thereto and abstract

large amounts of currency. This he did night after night. At length he

abstracted $5,000 in one package, carried it with him to the den in

question, staked it at the faro table, and lost every cent. The

proprietor had always posed as his friend, and the wretched devotee of

play took him into his confidence. He told him that he was a defaulter

to the extent of $31,000. “Better go and get it all, and see if you can

play out,” was the advice of the gambler. He added that if he lost it he

would be in no worse condition than he then was. After considerable

argument and no little persuasion, the official of the corporation

consented, and the two went together to the company’s office. The

gambler held a lamp in order that his dupe might be able to see more

clearly the combination of the safe. When it was opened he extended his

hand for the money, which the victim handed to him. With the money in

his possession, the scoundrel’s manner soon changed entirely. He told

the unhappy defaulter that it would be far better for him to go to

California, where he would keep him well supplied with money, while

meanwhile a compromise might be effected with the company. This was not

at all satisfactory to the embezzler, who insisted upon taking the money

and risking it at play. But the gambler was obdurate, and flatly refused

to turn over any more cash than was necessary to enable the miserable

man to leave town. They drank and quarreled until morning. The position

of the official was a most distressing one. He dared not return to the

office; he was absolutely penniless; and to attempt to compel the

surrender of the money by the gambler would be to proclaim his own

shame. Accordingly, he found himself compelled to accept the terms

proposed to him. His pretended friend stuck close to him, escorted him

to the train, bought him a ticket and gave him a little money and much

advice, bidding him farewell with a profusion of promises. The money

which the absconding treasurer had taken with him was soon spent, but

the man who had been the cause of his ruin refused to take any notice of

his appeals for further assistance. At last the unhappy man concluded,

like the prodigal in the parable, to “arise and go to his father.” The

latter was a man of wealth, and on learning of his son’s whereabouts, at

once sent him money with which to come home. As soon as the victim

reached Chicago, the gambler was arrested and placed in jail, where he

languished for some three months, being unable to secure bail chiefly

because of his notoriously bad character. He finally secured his release

through a compromise, restoring the $20,000 which he had taken from the

defaulter on the night before he left the city. The victim of his

knavery died soon afterwards of consumption, supposed to have been

aggravated, if not induced, through the dissipation to which he resorted

in order to drown his shame.

At the expiration of Mayor Haines’ term of office, Mr. Wentworth was

again elevated to the chief magistracy of the city. He found a very

different state of affairs from that which he had left. While things had

not exactly “gone to the dogs,” the laws were by no means strictly

enforced and many of the minor city ordinances had become dead letters.

Particularly was this true in the case of those relating to bawdy houses

and gaming hells. This circumstance may be accounted for in part by the

fact that there did not exist an overwhelming public sentiment in favor

of their suppression. Then, as now, there was a large and influential

element in the community which openly claimed that while these resorts

were to be condemned on principle, their toleration in a large and

constantly growing city was a necessary evil. Another class protested

loudly against any interference by the legislative or executive

departments of the government with what they were pleased to denominate

the “personal liberty of the citizens.” Others, still, who never gambled

themselves, looked upon the harm done by this class of houses as being

no affair of theirs, and regarded the ruin of the occasional players at

faro with the utmost indifference.

Wentworth was quick to feel and respond to the public pulse upon this

question. During his second term he was by no means the terror to evil-

doers that he had been throughout his first. He had already shown what

he could do, and the cognomen of a “reform Mayor,” appeared to have for

him no further charms. While his enforcement of the laws cannot be said

to have been lax, neither was it particularly stringent. Nevertheless,

he occasionally made life exceedingly interesting for the gamblers.

The years during which Mayors Rumsey and Sherman held office, were

halcyon days for Chicago sporting men. This was the era of the war, when

gambling flourished all over the country and raised its serpent head

with a brazen effrontery never seen before. Paymasters, contractors and

army officers gambled with a reckless prodigality which was as

surprising as it was reprehensible. These classes constituted, perhaps,

the richest prey for the professional gamblers. Next to them, the

numerous professional bounty-jumpers, who rapidly scattered at the

gaming table the money out of which they had defrauded the government.

Those were mad, wild times, when money was abundant and speculation ran

riot. It was pre-eminently a period of “brace” games, the reckless

players being apparently utterly indifferent as to the character of the

game at which they staked their money.

Among the professionals who came prominently into public notice at this

time were William Leonard, (sometimes known as “Old Bill”) Otis Randall,

George Trussell, and Judd.

The latter was known as a “forty-niner.” He entered upon his career as a

gambler in the far west, carrying a roulette wheel on his back from one

mining camp to another. He accumulated a considerable amount of money

through gaming, and retired from its active pursuit. Going from Chicago

to New York he became associated with John Morrissey in the

proprietorship of some of the most elegant gaming houses in that city.

Rumor has it that he also had an interest in several resorts of an

inferior grade. He was what is known among the fraternity as an “all-

round sport,” equally adept at all games. His fondness for liquor proved

the cause of the loss of his fortune, and compelled him once more to

become a wanderer.

George Trussel, who during the time of which we are writing, owned and

conducted one of the most popular resorts in Chicago, was a man of fine

physique, scrupulous in his dress, and extravagant in his tastes and

habits. His establishment was elegantly, if not sumptuously furnished,

and the refreshments provided for the guests were noted for their fine

quality, no less than for the fastidiousness displayed in the manner of

their service. He came to a wretched end. His discarded mistress shot

and killed him at the entrance to Rice’s livery stable, as he was

returning with a horse and buggy in which he had taken her rival for a

drive. The case awakened no little interest at the time, and the trial

was fully reported in the daily prints. The woman was acquitted by the

jury, whose sympathies were aroused by the deplorable tale of seduction,

neglect, abuse and desertion which she revealed.

Another gambler who met a somewhat similar fate was Charley Stiles, who

was shot and killed at his room in the Palmer House by a courtesan whom

he had outrageously abused. The verdict of the jury in her case was a

somewhat anomalous one. They found her mentally irresponsible at the

time of the commission of the deed, yet fixed her punishment at one

year’s imprisonment in the penitentiary.

Mayor Rumsey ruled with a by no means iron hand. The blacklegs found

comparatively little occasion to find fault with his administration of

city affairs. Occasionally, a complaint on the part of some victim or an

unusually bitter newspaper attack would compel him to resort to harsh

measures. At such times, one or two raids would be made; the gamblers

were forced to open their safes, and the tools and furniture taken away,

though their destruction was rarely attempted, the owners being usually

allowed ample time in which to sue out writs of replevin.

Reference has been made to the prosperous times which the fraternity

enjoyed under the rule of Mayor Sherman. Connected with his

administration, however, was Chief of Police Washburne. In the latter

official the gamblers found a bitter and uncompromising foe. He raided

the hells constantly, earnestly and viciously. Furniture and tools

costing thousands of dollars were ruthlessly destroyed; and if the

owners replevined the property seized and attempted to resume business

“at the old stand,” they soon found they had reckoned without their

host. Washburne at once paid them a midnight visit, and again removed

the paraphernalia of their houses. It was his custom to insist upon

heavy fines, and this circumstance, taken in connection with the

destruction of property, soon made the business unprofitable. He gave

the “sports” no rest, harrassing them night and day.

His laudable efforts to suppress the gaming houses were materially

hampered by the treachery and insubordination of his officers. The

sympathy of a very large proportion of the police force was with the

proprietors of the hells, and the latter were constantly apprized of

intended raids, and were generally kept tolerably well posted as to the

intentions and doings of the chief. As a matter of course, for services

such as these the “crooks” were willing to pay, and pay well. As a

result of this state of affairs, it was no uncommon occurrence for the

raiders to find a house empty and securely closed at the time of their

nocturnal visit. Sometimes the keepers adopted other tactics. Instead of

closing the house, they quietly awaited the arrival of the police, in

company with a few pretended players, whom they had hired to submit to

an arrest. On such occasions, the only property found consisted of an

empty tin box and a few stacks of old and worn out chips.

Notwithstanding all these hindrances, Washburne was vigilant and

energetic. His exertions knew no cessation. He not only rendered it

unsafe to conduct a gaming house, but made it dangerous and costly to be

caught in one. The contest proved to be an unequal one, and the gamblers

abandoned the field to their determined antagonist. To their patrons

they said that it was their intention to “close up for a little while,

until the storm blew over or the authorities were fixed.” For a time,

there was no public gambling in the city, but soon some of the more

venturesome members of the fraternity began to “play a little on the

quiet.” They at once discovered that this would not do. The risk of

playing was so great, however, that only “brace” or “snap” games were

opened. The efforts of the blacklegs in this direction were supplemented

by the opening of “bunko” rooms, with occasional ventures at rouge-et-

noir, while “top and bottom” joints were scattered about the city.

Gaming, as such—by which is meant the playing of a game of chance—was

unknown. The sports were penniless and needed money; they were aware

that their operations must be conducted quickly if they were to avoid

arrest, and in consequence, they had resort to every sort of device

known among professionals as “sure things.” The robbery carried on was

of the most outrageous and shameless description, and the harvest, if

confined within a brief period, was golden while it lasted. Temporary

games were numerous and gamblers thrived. Hotels, lodging houses, the

back rooms of saloons, in fact, every available place was utilized.

Rooms were rented for a short time only and cheaply furnished, here,

there and everywhere. Yet Washburne hounded them from place to place,

although embarrassed by lukewarmness, if not positive corruption on the

part of his subordinates. Indeed, there was an element in the force

which was constantly plotting against him and incessantly scheming for

his removal. Many of his descents upon the hells proved futile for the

reasons already stated. Despite all these hindrances, however, the

strife went on, and Washburne showed no sign of weakening.

When Mayor Rice assumed control of the city’s executive department, the

gamblers began to resume operations more openly. They soon found that

prosecutions were by no means so numerous as they had been while

Washburne filled the position of Chief of Police, while raids were

comparatively infrequent. Boldness soon succeeded timidity, and during

the latter part of Mayor Rice’s term, as well as throughout the

mayoralty of Mason, the list of gaming houses was constantly augmented.

In fact, “crooks” found no better territory for their operations

throughout the length and breadth of the land than Chicago. Confidence

men swarmed upon the public streets and plied their nefarious vocation

without let or hindrance. The fame of the city as a safe stamping ground

for swindlers soon spread abroad, and there occurred a general hegira of

gamblers to a place where they knew that they ran no risk of

molestation. As a result, Chicago was soon filled with a set of sharpers

drawn from all quarters of the United States, and comprising as motley,

disreputable and dishonest a class as ever cursed any city under the

face of Heaven. Wealthy “suckers” were found in abundance, and “brace”

dealers, “bunko” men and rogues of every description carried off money

in bundles.

Among the most prominent men engaged in gambling in Chicago at this

period were Harry Lawrence (afterward a dealer in “Rock and Rye,” and

partner of Morris Martin), Mike McDonald, “Bill” Foster, “Big John”

Wallace, “Little John” Wallace, “Trailer,” “Appetite Bill,” “Nobby Tom,”

Sam Hueston, Harry Monell, “Bill” Close, “Hank” Maguire, Tom Daniels,

“White Pine,” “Snapper” Johnny, “Rebel” George, “Long” John, “Billy”

Singleton, Grant, “Jake” Lehman, “Johnny” Molloy, Lew Lee, “Jew” Myers,

and at least fifty more of the “small fry” class.

The winnings of some of the men named above were a theme of gossip among

gamblers all over the continent. The “bunko” men were particularly

successful. To rob a man out of $5,000 was a common occurrence; $7,000

was occasionally made; while there were those who repeatedly won $10,000

from a single victim; and one of this class of sharpers succeeded in

taking $20,000 from one of his dupes. Meanwhile the profits of the

“skin” houses were enormous.

This was the state of affairs existing at the time of the visitation of

the city by the holocaust of 1871, when the United States military were

called upon to protect the people and the city was placed under martial

law. Thugs, thieves, confidence men, “skin” gamblers and rogues of every

sort might be found on any street corner. From Harrison Street on the

south, to Lincoln Park on the north, roamed a homeless, hungry,

penniless mob, whom the prospect of starvation soon drove across the

river to the West Side. With the crowd went Martin, Kellogg, Batchelder,

McDonald and Dowling. “Watt” Robbins and John Lawler opened a house on

State Street, and the games measurably flourished until the election of

Joseph Medill in the spring of 1872.

He assumed office with many promises of reform, which he carried out to

the best of his ability. One of his first acts was a declaration of war

upon the gamblers, and vigorously was it prosecuted. The houses were

promptly and permanently closed, and the only gambling done during his

term of office was attended with great risk to those who engaged in it.

Still, the task of supplying the needs of the destitute and guarding the

other interests of the city were so great that some were found who

ventured to incur the hazard of playing an occasional game, which was,

of course, always of the “brace” variety. Yet, on the whole, Medill

fully merited the high encomiums bestowed upon him by the enemies of

gambling for his effective, restrictive policy and his manly enforcement

of the laws.

He was succeeded by H. D. Colvin, familiarly nicknamed by the sporting

men as “Harvey,” just as the same class afterwards spoke of Mayor

Harrison as “our Carter.” His was an administration which might be

fairly described as one under which “everything went.” Scarcely had he

taken his seat before the gamblers began to furnish and open many houses

in all quarters of the city. Those who had emigrated from the South to

the West division, returned to their former haunts. Among the rest was

one who located himself at the corner of Clark and Monroe Streets where

he conducted the European Hotel, with a saloon and gambling rooms

attached. This place continued to run for many years. The worst elements

of the community were in the ascendent. Dance halls, concert saloons and

disreputable houses of every description abounded and flourished.

“Toughs” of every grade walked the streets without fear; and the bunko

men, “brace” dealers, monte players and “crooks” of high and low degree

openly plied their vocations. The “sucker” who wished to lose his money,

had his choice of no less than eight “brace” gaming houses, twelve bunko

shops, and an innumerable assortment of joints where rouge-et-noir,

wheel of fortune, and “top and bottom” were but a few of the devices

employed to fleece greenhorns. The mayor manifested utter indifference

to the enforcement of the laws, and it was said that his personal

example was not of a kind to instill into the minds of the average

citizen a respect for authority. Of all the “free and easy” cities in

the Union, Chicago was at this time the worst. The town was literally

handed over to the criminal class who held high carnival by day as well

as by night.

One of the best known gamblers who flourished at this period, and who

has since attained considerable influence in local politics soon forged

to the front and became the recognized “boss.” It was commonly stated at

the time that he was personally interested in not a few resorts of

questionable character, and that he was wont to levy a contribution upon

every gambler who came to Chicago. Be that as it may, it is certain that

the games no longer lurked in dark corners and out of the way

localities, but opened their doors upon the city’s principal streets,

their proprietors carrying on their nefarious business with as little

concealment as though they had been engaged in legitimate commercial

pursuits.

Another professional sport who figured prominently before the public at

that time as proprietor of two “dollar stores,” with back-room

attachments where “bunko” and “top and bottom” were played, has since

become a reputable citizen, the proprietor of a large store in Chicago,

and is reputed to be millionaire.

The press scored Colvin roundly, and the indignation of the decent, law-

abiding citizens against him knew no bounds. Threats of impeachment were

freely made but never enforced. Vice and crime continually stalked

brazenly through the streets until the close of his term when he was

succeeded by Mayor Hoyne, who gave way, in turn, to Heath.

The rule of the latter was as radically stringent as that of Colvin had

been disreputably lax. He at once set about righting many wrongs,

establishing order, and enforcing the laws. The work which he thus

mapped out was an herculean task, for pandemonium reigned and the “gang”

was determined not to be driven out without making a severe struggle.

One of Heath’s first orders was to the effect that the gambling houses

should be closed. The proprietors seemingly acquiesced, but actually

carried on business surreptitiously, and raiding was at once begun. When

the police endeavored to force an entrance into the gambling rooms at

the “Store,” a well known resort on Clark Street, connected with a

hotel, they committed the blunder of breaking into the rooms of the

caravansary. The wife of the proprietor promptly resented this intrusion

upon the premises by firing at the officers, although no one was hit.

She was arrested and defended by A. S. Trude, who secured her discharge

from Judge McAllister on the plea that her house was her castle and that

the law justified her in defending it. The incident caused much

excitement in the city at the time, and Mayor Heath became yet more

aggressive and was as unremittent in his attentions to the gamblers,

whose houses he kept closed.

In 1877 a loud cry was raised against “bunko” and “bunko steerers,” and

it was charged that this class of swindlers found victims in alarming

numbers, and that the unsophisticated “stranger within the gates” was

being guided to his financial ruin with great rapidity. On motion of

Alderman Cullerton the mayor was instructed to appoint a special

committee to ascertain if public gaming houses were tolerated in the

city. His Honor named as such committee Aldermen Cullerton, Phelps and

Waldo. The “bunko” men were subsequently thinned out by the police.

Carter H. Harrison succeeded Heath as mayor. The radical policy of his

predecessor was not pursued by the new incumbent, and charges were

constantly made by the press that gambling was rampant in the city.

Austin Doyle had been chief of police under Mayor Heath, and for a time

filled the same position under his successor. The frequency of

complaints by victims and the numerous and bitter attacks upon the

administration in the public prints stimulated Mr. Doyle to take active

measures toward suppressing the vice. Through his energetic tactics the

houses were compelled to close their doors, and for a time public gaming

came to an end. Doyle, however, was offered a responsible position in

the employ of a private corporation, and resigned his public office. His

successor did not meet with the same success in suppressing the

nuisance.

Harrison served two terms and it is not too much to say that throughout

the greater part of the four years during which he was mayor those who

wished to encounter the “tiger in his lair” found little difficulty in

gratifying their inclination.

Roche followed Harrison, holding the reigns of city government for two

years. He owed his elevation to office in a large measure to the support

which he received from the “law and order” element of the community, and

was tacitly if not avowedly pledged to carry out their wishes. He soon

began to make things interesting for the gamblers. They were given fair

notice of his intentions and instructed to close. Those who failed to

comply with his command soon discovered that the city’s executive meant

what he had said and had the power to enforce his behest. Public houses

were forced to close their doors, and the city for a time enjoyed a

comparative rest. Occasionally games were played at the hotels, private

club rooms, and over saloons, but generally speaking it was a “hole-and-

corner” sort of play, and it was by no means an easy matter to discover

where the games were going on. The result was that many of the “sports”

who had prospered during the years preceding, found themselves forced to

seek “fresh fields and pastures new.”

When Roche’s name was presented to the public as that of a candidate for

re-election the hostility of the fraternity toward him quickly found

vent. His opponent, Cregier, received the support of the men who had

learned to hate the administration which interfered with their business,

and he was elected by a very decided majority. At the present time the

number of gambling houses in the city may be said to be legion. The

proprietors have taken leases of the premises for two years, in some

cases giving the previous tenants a bonus to move out; removing

partitions, enlarging entrances, building new stairways, and otherwise

intimating their belief that, for a time at least, they cherish no

apprehension of molestation. Raids are infrequent, although,

occasionally, a few Mongolians are captured while playing “bung-loo,”

and once in a while a squad of negroes is taken to the station as a

punishment for being detected in playing “crap.” The larger houses

suffer but little from police interference. When a raid is made on one

of these establishments, the officers placidly await the coming of the

patrol wagon while the players escape through a convenient window or

sky-light. Enough “pluggers” are captured to fill one or two wagons and

are driven to the nearest police station with much clatter and display.

The proprietors promptly bail out their employes, and the next morning

pay the small fines imposed upon them. Within an hour or two after the

descent of the police the game is again in full operation.

Some idea of the success which attends public gaming houses in Chicago

at the present time may be formed from a consideration of the fact that

the largest and best patronized house has, on an average, forty men on

its pay-roll; that sometimes twenty games are in full blast at one time;

and that the estimated net winnings of its owners amount to $20,000 a

month. To this place professionals are not admitted, it being found more

remunerative to encourage the patronage of amateur players. So notorious

is this fact that the _habitués_ of this resort are commonly termed the

“dinner pail brigade.”

The following may be accepted as a correct statement of the regular

weekly salaries at a Chicago house doing a good business: Two faro

dealers at $40 a week; three ditto at $35; two roulette croupiers at

$30; two hazard dealers at $30; two stud-poker dealers at $30; one

outside watchman at $20; one doorkeeper at $25; sixteen “pluggers” and

“cappers” at $2.50 per day; total salary list, $690 per week.

It is fair to presume that this is an average outlay for weekly salaries

by the numerous gaming houses. The estimate does not, of course, include

miscellaneous expenses, such as rent, fuel, lighting, free eating and

drinking for the _habitués_, nor the large percentage on profits paid to

“ropers” and “steerers.” It must be plain to the dullest comprehension

that a business of such magnitude as to be able to pay nearly $700 in

weekly salaries, is in favor of the army of unemployed gamblers who are

temporarily “down on their luck.”

However, there are some gaming houses in the city where high rollers can

always gain admittance and find congenial company; where the obliging

proprietors are always willing to “remove the limit” for a regular

patron; and which enjoy the reputation of being comparatively “square.”

One of the peculiar features of Chicago gambling is the reported

existence of a “gamblers’ trust.” The use of the word “trust” as applied

to establishments which cannot in any sense be called commercial, seems,

on its face, to be anomalous, yet, if all reports be true, the term is

not a misnomer. It is understood that a combination of sporting men

exists, the nature of the tie that binds them being the contribution by

the proprietors of each establishment belonging to the pool of either a

fixed sum weekly or an agreed percentage of the winnings toward a common

purse. Just what is done with the money is known only to those who

handle it, but when it is remembered that the contributors enjoy

practical immunity from police interference, its disposition is a fair

subject of conjecture.

Within the last month (July, 1890), the question of selling pools upon

races has loomed up into prominence. One of the chief operators in this

line, a man who is reputed to have cleared $190,000 through this means

during the racing season of 1889, has invoked the aid of private

detective agencies for the suppression of his business rivals. The

latter have retaliated by employing the city police to interfere with

his operations. The result has been a sort of Kilkenny fight, in which

charges seriously reflecting upon the city’s chief executive have been

filed in the courts.

SELECTIONS FROM A PRICE LIST OF SPORTING GOODS MANUFACTURED AND FOR

SALE BY A FIRM IN CHICAGO, ILL.

FARO TOOLS.

Trimming Shears, double bar, brass block $40 00

” ” with attachment for cutting briefs 45 00

Cutter, for cutting round corners on cards 20 00

Trimming Plates, will cut any style of cards 8 00

_Trimming Shears repaired and sharpened._

Dealing Boxes, Lever movement $35 00 to $60 00

” ” End, or Needle movement $50 00 to $100 00

” ” Sand Tell $13 00, $15 00 to $18 00

” ” ” ” to lock up square $20 00, $25 00

_Dealing Boxes repaired, or changed to end or needle squeeze._

Faro Dealing Cards, unsquared, per doz. $15 00

” ” ” squared, per doz. 15 00

” ” ” ” per pack 1 25

” ” ” Linen, second quality 6 50

” ” ” ” ” ” squared 7 50

->_Dealing Cards of every kind furnished to order._

Card Punches, best steel 2 00

” Sighters, set of 4 in case 2 00

Glass Paper, better than sand, per doz. sheets 1 00

DEALING GAMES FOR BOX AND CARDS.

Card Hazard, cards, box, layout complete $25 00

” ” Layout 15 00

Red and Black Dealing Boxes, to lock and unlock 25 00

” ” ” ” Skeleton boxes, to lock and unlock 10 00

” ” ” ” Boxes, to work with gaff 25 00

Short Faro, or Card Chuck Luck, Enameled Layout 3 00

Diana Dealing Boxes, for two packs 15 00

ROULETTE, RONDO AND BALL GAMES.

High Ball Poker Balls, ivory, flat face, each $ 25

Patent Bottle, with Keno mouthpiece, bottle only 10 00

(Rubber Tubing for above, per foot, 15c.)

Red, White and Blue Layout, box and balls 12 00

POOL AND SPINDLE GAMES.

Chuck-luck Wheel, complete with layouts $30 00

Spindle Game, red, white, blue and horses 15 00

Jenny Wheel, for high or low, or red or black 10 00

” ” with two centers, and paddles 15 00

Rolling Faro, 28 Aces, and 2 Stars—with fake 60 00

” ” 28 Cards, and 4 Jacks ” 60 00

” ” 1-2-3-4-5-6 and Stars ” 60 00

” ” on table, to work with knee or pressure 125 00

” ” Extra Spreads, with Rings to match 20 00

Jewelry Squeeze Spindle 40 00

Needle Wheel, complete with Layout 80 00

Bee Hive (Hap Hazard), new and _sure_ 50 00

O’Leary Belt, with one box, complete 75 00

Striking Machines, two fakes, with chart 40 00

Miniature Race Tracks, seven horses, to order 300 00

(Packed in cases for traveling, $50.00 extra.)

“Corona,” or “Mascott” 200 00

Tivoli, or Derby Pool, faked 100 00

_$20.00 required with order for faked goods._

DICE GAMES.

Bunko Chart, “Special Drawing,” without tickets $ 5 00

Bunko tickets, per set of 56 2 00

Ivory Dice, for top and bottom, three fair,_with_ ringer 80

” ” double, 3 high, 3 low, 3 fair, with box 2 00

” ” LOADED, ” ” ” ” 5 00

” ” ” ⅝ inch, _each_ 1 25

” ” ” ¾ ” ” 1 50

Craps ” ½ inch, Ivory, per set of 6 1 50

Ball ” HYRONEMUS, per set of 3, 1 inch 3 00

” ” ” ” ” 1¼ inch. 4 50

” ” ” ” ” 1½ inch. 6 00

” ” ” ” ” 2 inch. 10 50

_Measured by the diameter of ball._

Ivory Dice Tops, to throw high or low 1 50

SHORT GAMES.

Monte Tickets, or “Broads,” per doz., by express 5 00

Patent Knives, with lock, new pattern 5 00

Tobacco Boxes, to lock and unlock 1 50

Patent Safes, with two openings, ebony 2 00

Padlocks, per pair 50

Penny Game, complete with dice 60

Bank Note Reporters, by mail 50

Sliding Boxes, for street work, per 100 1 00

Double Boxes, with Soap, per doz., 75c., per 100 5 00

Vest Hold Out, with late improvements 10 00

Table Hold Out, something new, works with knee 10 00

The “Bug,” for holding out an extra card 1 00

SHORT CARD GAMES.

Sleeve Hold Out, arm pressure $25 00

” ” ” ” Keplinger’s patent 00

Nail Pricks, for finger nails 50

Shiner, for reading cards dealt opponents 1 00

” ” ” ” ” in half dollar 2 00

Poker Table Plates, each 50c. and 75

Floor Telegraph, for Poker Rooms 5 00

Marked Back Cards, per doz., _round corners_, by express 12 00

” ” ” Flag Backs, per doz. 12 00

Strippers, for any game, cut to order $6 00 to 8 00

Crayon Pencils, case of 12 colors 1 00

Spanish Monte Cards, _will wash_, per doz. 9 00

Dealing Boxes, for Monte 10 00

->_Monte cards cut and prepared in any manner._

GAMBLING IN ST. LOUIS.

With the exception of New Orleans—and possibly of Chicago—it is doubtful

whether public gambling ever took deeper root in any Western city than

the metropolis of Missouri. This fact may be attributed partly to the

mixed character of the early population, in which were blended the

elements of the French and Southern natures. Games of chance seem to

appeal more strongly to the hot-blooded temperament which is kindled

into warmth by a Southern sun, than to the more phlegmatic disposition

of those who have been reared in Northern latitudes. Another cause for

the popularity and prevalence of gambling in St. Louis is to be found in

the fact that for many years that city enjoyed the distinction of being

the chief commercial centre of the Mississippi valley. Not only was it

the _entrepot_ and point of transfer for vast quantities of freight, the

handling of which gave employment to a large number of men, but

emigrants on their way to the far West found the city a convenient place

in which they might rest and recruit, and at the same time purchase

supplies.

The result of this latter circumstance was that professional gamblers

from all points of the compass flocked thither, making the city a sort

of headquarters from which to make predatory excursions upon the

steamboats that plied the lower Mississippi. Scores of the best known

sporting men in the United States have, at one time or another, made St.

Louis their abiding place.

Among the earliest professionals to locate there were “Jim” Ames, Henry

Perritt, Bob O’Blennis, David Foster, William and Rufus Sanders, Pete

Manning, Thorwegian, Hewey Gains, George Phegley, Jr., Henry Godfrey,

Jim Greely, Alex. Tyler, Capt. Roberts and Ecker.

Of all these, perhaps O’Blennis was the best known; not so much for his

skillful dealing as for his pugnacious disposition. He was the terror of

all who knew him, and was always ready—as the slang phrase runs—“to

fight at the drop of a hat.” He was struck by paralysis, and for several

years before his death was unable to do anything for himself without the

assistance of a colored servant, who accompanied him wherever he went.

These were succeeded by Ryan—who killed a man in Nebraska City and

served a term in the penitentiary therefor—John Dewing, Ed Dowling,

Kelley, “Bill” Close, “Dr.” Ladd, “Tonny” Blennerhassett and “Count”

Sobieski.

The latter married a woman who had been the plaintiff in a breach of

promise suit, which was one of the _causes celebres_ of the city’s

judicial history. He occupied gorgeously appointed apartments near

Mercantile Library Hall, in which, on Sundays, he was wont to entertain

a choice party of congenial spirits with banquets which Epicurus himself

might have envied. At the conclusion of the feast the “Count” would

produce his dealing box and layout, and proceed to entertain his

visitors by dealing a quiet game of faro, the result usually being that

when the party broke up for the evening the guests found that they had

transferred most of their surplus cash from their pockets to those of

their courteous but more fortunate (?) host. Liquor, however, proved

Sobieski’s ruin. His wife separated from him because of his

intemperance, and he wandered about, aimlessly, until death overtook him

at Salt Lake City. His widow went after his body, which she buried in

St. Louis. She received $10,000 on his policy of life insurance, the

payments on which she had kept up during the years of their

estrangement.

Other “old timers,” who flourished here before the war, were Dow Catlin,

Charley Coulter, Joe Butch, Frank Smith, Dan Ward and “Bill” Williams.

In the early days of public gaming it was popularly supposed that play

was conducted “on the square,” and as a matter of fact, “brace” games

were not so notoriously common then as in later years. Yet there was

never a time in the history of this vice when professional gamesters

would hesitate to resort to unfair advantages when their funds were at a

low ebb, or they believed that the trick might be safely played. But in

the exciting days which marked the beginning of the war, “skin” gambling

became more common, and in 1862-63 there were “brace” dealers in

abundance.

Of the skilled artists in the manipulation of the pasteboards at that

period, whose faces were familiar to all who sought the “tiger” in his

lair were George Griffen (a Bostonian, who, coming to St. Louis well-

nigh penniless, soon acquired an interest in four gaming

establishments), Stuart Eddy, George Phegley, August Whitman and Jack

Silvia. Of the latter, it is credibly reported, and generally believed

by the fraternity, that on one occasion when he had lost all his ready

cash, together with all that he could borrow on his watch and jewelry,

he actually pawned his artificial teeth (mounted on a gold plate) in

order to obtain fresh funds with which to play against the bank. He died

in Leadville, a pauper, after having won at gaming many thousands. Money

was subscribed to bring his remains to St. Louis for burial.

Besides there were “Gabe” Foster and Ben Burnish, afterward well known

in Chicago, who ran a place opposite the Planters House, there being

three others in the block. It was about this time that “Dick” Roach made

his appearance in St. Louis. He came from Detroit, a beardless youth,

but soon found employment as a dealer in a house located at the

Southeast corner of Pine and 4th streets. He had not been long so

engaged when his peculiar talents in this direction began to develop

themselves. As a player against the bank he “made a large stake,” and at

once secured an interest in a gaming establishment. His fortune is to-

day estimated at $500,000, and his career furnishes a striking exception

to the general rule applicable to the lives of men of his profession.

The members of the fraternity who have been mentioned may be said to

have constituted the first and second “crops” of St Louis gamblers. The

craze which followed the discovery of silver ore at Leadville, Colorado,

brought a third. Among them were such men as Hank Wider, Johnnie Morgan,

Lou Lee, Tom Daniels, Al Masterson, “Jimmy” White and John Hall, the

latter being generally better known under his sobriquet of “Coal-oil

Johnnie;” Bensby Brothers, Charley King, Pete Manning, Bill Binford, Joe

Duke, Charley Durgie, Cave Brothers, Harry Embree, Bill Kirrick,

Lightborn Brothers, Cill Howard, Bob Ray, and Sam Cade, who died

suddenly.

Of all these perhaps “Coal-oil Johnnie” is the best known. His career

was an eventful one, he having contrived to compress, within his

comparatively short life, enough adventurous escapades to fill a volume.

His end formed a fitting termination to his vicious course. On leaving

St. Louis he went to Chicago, where he obtained employment as dealer in

a “brace” house. He left the latter city suddenly “between two days,”

taking with him the “bank roll” of the parties for whom he was working.

His wife followed in quest of him. She found him at Terre Haute,

Indiana, dead drunk. In his company was a woman. Enraged beyond

endurance at the sight, Mrs. Hall drew from her pocket a revolver, the

contents of whose chambers she emptied into her husband’s body. She was,

of course, at once arrested and in due time tried, but her counsel

experienced no difficulty in securing from the jury an acquittal of his

client on the ground of emotional insanity.

At the time of which I am speaking “skin” houses were far more plentiful

in St. Louis than “square” ones, and the city at the junction of the

Mississippi and Missouri afforded even a better field for the operations

of blacklegs than has even her rival by the shores of Lake Michigan in

the latter’s palmiest days. There was little effort made to clothe the

business with even the flimsiest veil of secrecy. All the resorts were

wide open and, in the slang of the fraternity, “everything went.”

“Steerers” were almost as numerous as “suckers,” and, when the city

detectives announced their intention to arrest these gentry on sight the

latter snapped their fingers at the police, openly set the authorities

at defiance, and brazenly continued to ply their nefarious calling.

Gambling was practically unrestrained, and play ran high. Business men,

lawyers, doctors, artisans, actors—men from every walk of life—gambled

as a pastime, while those who made the practice of the vice their sole

business thrived proportionately.

“Squeals” from victims were of daily occurrence, and the authorities

found themselves compelled to take notice of the complaints. It is not

too much to say, however, that the executive department of the city was

for many years honeycombed with corruption. One police official, who

occupied a position very near the top round of the ladder was understood

to have realized $28,000 as the result of his extortion of blackmail

from gaming-house keepers. It followed, as a matter of course, that when

the officers of the law found themselves compelled to make a raid upon

one of these resorts the descent was accomplished in a most perfunctory

manner. The common practice was to send notice to the proprietors in

advance that they might “expect visitors” at an hour named. The gamblers

being thus forewarned, the police rarely found anything to justify

stringent measures. The paraphernalia was generally safely stowed away

out of sight; and if, by chance, any gambling instruments were captured,

their owners were generally privately advised as to where, when and how

they might recover their property.

As tending to illustrate how the mania for gaming had taken hold of all

classes of society, I cannot forbear to relate the following anecdote of

Mr. F——, who, at the time of which I am speaking, was president of one

of the St. Louis banks. While the tale may bring a smile to the lips of

the man who, even as an amateur, has taken a hand in a “little game of

draw,” it is not without its moral. The story runs thus: One morning as

the janitor of Mr. F——’s bank was swinging open the heavy doors which

guarded the treasure of the institution from the marauding hands of

covetous midnight strollers, he discovered sitting on the steps three

tired-looking citizens, one of whom clutched tightly in his hands a

sealed package. But a short time elapsed before the cashier appeared

upon the scene. “Gentlemen,” he suavely asked, “how can I accommodate

you? Do you wish to make a deposit?” The man with the package eagerly

assured him that he had come to negotiate a loan. “What security do you

offer?” asked the cashier; “government bonds?” “Government nothing!”

answered the would-be borrower. “I’ve got something that knocks 7-30’s

clean out of the ropes.” And producing the bundle which he had so

jealously guarded, his two companions gathering close around, he

proceeded to explain the situation: “You see,” he went on, “these

gentlemen and myself have been playing poker all night. I’ve got a dead

sure thing, but they’re trying to ‘raise me’ out. I want $5,000 to ‘see’

them with. See here.” And he unsealed the packet and showed its contents

to the astounded bank official. “This,” he explained, “is my hand. I’ll

show it to you, but don’t let them (indicating his companions) see it.

You see we sealed it up so the cards couldn’t be monkeyed with.” The

cashier looked at the cards; they were four kings and an ace. (This was

before the days of a “royal flush,” and beat any other hand then

recognized.) Coldly did the financier regard the precious pasteboards,

and austere was his glance as he returned them, saying in freezing

tones, “this bank, sir, doesn’t lend on cards.” The disappointed

applicant for a loan turned sadly away, dejectedly saying to his

comrades, “boys, I’m a chump if he isn’t going to let me be frozed out

on this hand.” And he gazed ruefully down the street. At this moment Mr.

F—— opportunely came in sight, and was at once recognized. Quick as

thought the distressed gamester appealed to him for assistance. The bank

president had himself been spending the night at the poker table, and he

comprehended the situation at a glance. Rushing behind the bank’s

counter he seized several bags of double eagles and accompanied the trio

to the room where the game had been in progress. In a brief time he

returned to the bank, threw down the amount of the loan, together with

$500 interest on the accommodation, and glared at the cashier. “Ever

play poker?” he asked. The abashed official meekly confessed his

ignorance of the game. “Well, sir,” pursued the president in tones of

deep earnestness not unmixed with a touch of sarcasm, “if you had you

would know better what good collateral is. You might as well understand,

once for all, that four kings, with an ace for a confidence card, is

good in this institution for our entire assets.”

One of the best known characters in St. Louis in those days, and who

afterward achieved no little notoriety all over the West, was John

Lawler. He was a jovial, reckless, devil-may-care fellow, but possessing

many traits which rendered him popular among his acquaintances. He first

appeared among St. Louis sporting men as a “roper” and venturesome

player against the bank. Innumerable anecdotes are told of him

illustrating his character and setting forth his experience, both in

that city and elsewhere. His ups and downs were numerous and abrupt. One

evening, while sitting in a restaurant waiting for his supper, there

entered a man from Newark, Ohio, with whom he had a slight acquaintance.

He lost no time in engaging him in conversation, and soon succeeded in

“steering” him into a “brace” house, where he lost $340. As soon as

Lawler could get away from his companion he returned to the room to

claim his percentage on the amount won, which was handed to him at once.

Repairing to another resort he seated himself at a faro table and began

to play. Luck favored him and it was not long before he found himself

$1,100 ahead. He “cashed in his checks,” and privately determined to

purchase an interest in a small game on the succeeding day. Among the

bystanders, however, was George Ross, a faro dealer, a Philadelphian,

and a most jovial companion. He suggested to Lawler that it was a

pleasant night for a drive. The latter assented, and the two drove to

the Mansion House, where they had supper, which they washed down with

several bottles of wine. On their return to the city, Lawler said that

it was his “lucky night,” and announced his intention of winning enough

to reimburse him for the expenses of the jaunt. He went to a gaming

house and again began to “buck the tiger,” but the fickle goddess

deserted him and he arose from the table without a dollar. He was a man

of most irascible temper, and when he lost would frequently butt his

head against the wall and attempt to pull off his ears. On one occasion

when he had dropped his last cent at the faro table, he became so

excited that he threw an oyster loaf which he was taking home with him

at the ceiling of the room directly over the dealer’s head. The scene

that followed was a laughable one. The string broke and the oysters fell

in all directions, a fair portion of the loaf bespattering the dealer’s

face. From St. Louis he went to Chicago, where, in 1867, he became

interested in some of the best houses in that city, being associated

with such men as Captain Ash Holland, George Holt, Mat Robbins, and

McDonald. At the time of the great fire he was reputed to be worth

$40,000. It is said that he sank $20,000 in leasing, altering and

refitting the Southern Hotel, at the corner of Wabash avenue and Twenty-

second street. He also lost heavily at faro, often walking up to the

table and betting $1,000 on a single turn.

While in Chicago he became involved in a shooting scrape, the result of

which proved very serious. The party whom he shot was named George

Duvall, a “sure thing” player, as they are styled, who had played

“monte,” “top and bottom,” and “high hands” at euchre up and down the

Arkansas, Red, and Upper Mississippi and Missouri rivers. He had won

considerable amounts, of which he lost in playing against faro bank. A

few years ago he married at Cincinnati, and since then has published a

book on gambling, in which he recites many of his own personal

experiences.

At the time of the shooting above mentioned, a woman with whom Duvall

was well acquainted complained to him that Lawler had insulted her upon

the street. Duvall proceeded to hunt him up, and on meeting him

assaulted him, knocking him into a mud puddle, where he left him. As

soon as possible Lawler returned to his room, where he changed his

clothing, and having armed himself with a revolver sought out Duvall,

whom he found on the south-east corner of Clark and Madison streets. He

opened fire at once, hitting his adversary in the hand. Duvall took

refuge behind a telegraph pole and thus protected himself from the three

additional shots which Lawler fired before he was arrested. He was

indicted for assault with intent to kill, tried, convicted, and

sentenced to the penitentiary. A new trial was granted, and eight months

after the shooting he was acquitted. During his incarceration his hair

had turned from black to white, and by the time he had liquidated his

indebtedness to his counsel he was entirely penniless. Although he

afterwards succeeded in getting upon his feet again, and owned an

interest in several gambling houses, his old-time luck seemed to have

deserted him, and he was compelled to commence dealing for stipulated

wages. When Mayor Roche closed up the games, he opened an elegant club

room on Clark street, with cozily furnished apartments in the rear, in

which he kept house with an estimable lady whom he had married. The

police raided his place. The mortgage on his chattels was foreclosed,

and he succeeded in saving only $100 out of the wreck. With this sum he

sent his wife to her relatives, and he himself started for the Pacific

Slope. He is at present understood to be at Tacoma, where he is reported

to have acquired some real estate and to be doing well.

“Bob” Potee another well-known and exceedingly popular sporting man of

St. Louis, met a sad fate. He was sober, gentlemanly, and well bred, and

a high roller. He was married and well-to-do. He removed from St. Louis

to Kansas City, where fortune so frowned upon him that, becoming

despondent and weary of life, he disappeared and his body was afterwards

found in the river, into which he had thrown himself.

Another suicide among the gamblers at St. Louis was John Timmons, who

killed himself at Leadville, for some unexplained cause. His rash act

occasioned much surprise among his numerous friends, to whom he had

always seemed the very incarnation of cheerfulness and high animal

spirits.

Yet another victim of faro who came to a similar end was Captain Ash

Hopkins, one of the most popular river captains who sailed from St.

Louis to New Orleans. He was loved and respected by all who knew him,

but after a debauch in which he had lost several thousand dollars at one

bout with the “tiger,” he was found dead at sunrise of the following day

at the Southern Hotel. He found himself unable to meet his

responsibilities in this world and had madly appealed to the court of

eternal justice.

Far different, however, was the manner in which Charley Teenan met

death. Although a professional gambler, he had many of the elements of a

hero. He was dealing faro in a resort opposite the Southern Hotel at the

time of the burning of that immense caravansary. Seeing the flames, he

rushed from his rooms across the street to the blazing building. Up the

ladder he went and into the hallway, seeking whom he might rescue. Once,

twice, thrice, four times, he brought half suffocated victims to the

window and sent them down the ladder. Once more he went back on his

errand of mercy, but the flames and smoke repulsed him and he saw that

he had no time to lose if he were to save himself. Returning to the

window he saw that the ladder had been removed to another casement, in

order to rescue others. He climbed upon the sill and sprang toward the

ladder, hoping to catch it. Fatal leap! Missing his hold, he fell an

inert mass upon the stone flagging below, and was picked up mortally

wounded. He was carried to his gambling room and laid out on his faro

table.

John Mackey, another old-time St. Louis gambler, fell from his chair,

dead; alcoholism being the cause of his demise. Fisher, a case-keeper at

a Fourth street gaming house, was found dead on a lounge in the rooms

when the place was opened for business in the morning. He sprang from a

good New England family, and was well educated and well read. He was a

natural card player and was an expert at many games, and particularly

proficient at boston, cribbage and whist. Professionals had won large

sums of money through betting on his play. The original cause of his

downfall was his love for liquor, and his downward career was rapid. He

was a man of brains who might have made his mark in some one of the

learned professions, but who deliberately yielded himself a victim to a

strange infatuation, which caused him to end his life as a case-keeper

in a common “brace” house.

It surely seems as though Heaven had attached to the vice of gaming a

peculiar curse. Money won through this means rarely proves of benefit to

its possessor, as is shown by the large number of gamblers who have

accumulated considerable sums and yet died paupers. Another circumstance

which cannot fail to impress itself on the thoughtful mind is the fact

that so many of the profession have, as the slang phrase runs, “died

with their boots on,” while their death has remained unavenged by the

law. Charley Dalton, a St. Louis sport, was shot in the back in the

post-office at Salt Lake City, by one Obie, who charged him with having

insulted his wife. Alex. Crick, a protégé of “Old Jew” Abrams, a St.

Louis pawnbroker, who served a term in the penitentiary for receiving

stolen goods, was shot and killed by a courtesan in a house of ill-fame.

A somewhat similar case of those already described was that of “Star”

Davis, a popular sporting man of St. Louis, after whom the celebrated

racer, “Star Davis,” was named. He had a large acquaintance, by whom he

was well liked. He was a man of intelligence and refined tastes, and an

exceedingly venturesome player. While on one of his periodical sprees,

being grossly intoxicated, he fell down stairs and broke his neck.

The author well remembers a member of the fraternity who frequented the

gaming resorts of St. Louis during the period of his residence in that

city. He was familiarly known by the sobriquet of “Sugar Bob.” When I

first began to “steer” for faro banks in St. Louis, I found some

difficulty in inducing the victims to enter the house for which I was

acting. Accordingly, I employed “Sugar Bob” to decoy men whom I

selected, dividing my percentage with him. He received this singular

cognomen from the oily manner in which he used to sympathize with

“suckers” after they had been fleeced. If his honeyed words failed to

console them for their losses, it was universally conceded that there

was no further use for attempting to employ the influence of kindness.

[Illustration:

HON. CHARLES P. JOHNSON, EX-GOVERNOR OF MISSOURI,

AUTHOR OF THE “ANTI-GAMBLING LAW,” WHICH

ERADICATED GAMBLING FROM

THAT STATE.

]

EX-GOVERNOR CHARLES P. JOHNSON.

Governor Johnson was born in St. Clair County, Illinois, on the 18th of

January, 1836. His natural tastes early inclined him to the study of the

law, and he was admitted to the bar at St. Louis in 1857.

His official career forms a part of the history of the State which he

has so well served; it does not call for extended narration in a work of

this character. But one remark need be made in passing—that as his

private character has been without blemish, so is his public record

unassailable. It may not be out of place, however, to call attention to

the fact that it was through his unshaken firmness and unswerving

fidelity to the law which he had sworn to uphold that gambling was

finally successfully suppressed in St. Louis. In vain had every agency

been employed before to accomplish the same result. The pulpit had

thundered denunciation; the press had lifted up its voice against the

evil; fleeced victims had complained to the police, who had in turn

periodically raided the gambling dens with sledge hammers and batons;

yet all efforts had proven futile until the arrival of Governor Johnson

upon the scene. In him the gamblers recognized a foe of keen intellect,

sterling integrity and iron will, a man to be neither deceived, cajoled,

bought nor bullied.

In person Governor Johnson is spare, but well proportioned. His

countenance is grave, yet benignant; thoughtful, but unclouded,

indicating a mind well stored through deep research and capable of

grasping at once the most profound problems, and the most intricate

details. Nor does the face belie its promise. To comprehensive sagacity

he joins unfailing accuracy, and to a subtle faculty of discrimination

he unites a well-nigh inexhaustible fertility of expedient. Add to this

rare combination of qualities in their highest form of development an

almost incredible power of long-sustained application, and you have an

ideal lawyer, and it is only as a lawyer that he will be considered in

these pages.

Either from natural predilection, or through force of circumstances,

Governor Johnson’s most pronounced professional successes have been

attained as a criminal practitioner. To sway a jury is his forte and his

delight, and in the accomplishment of this end he well knows how to

employ the keen shafts of polished sarcasm, the scathing denunciation of

fiery invective, the cold logic of convincing argument, and the

impassioned appeal to tender sympathy. It has been well and truly said

of him that jurors enter the box as strangers to him, but leave it with

a sentiment of respect akin to regard. He has learned how to reach and

touch the secret springs of the human heart, and need acknowledge no

master in originality, tact or delicacy of touch, before which tears

succeed mirth, and in turn yield to indignation.

His practice in the criminal courts has pitted him against such

brilliant luminaries of the legal firmament as Uriel Wright (deceased),

Senator George G. Vest, William Wallace, Judge Henry D. Laughlin, and

Joseph G. Lodge (deceased), with a number of others equally as prominent

in Missouri; Ex-Governor Palmer and William O’Brien, of Illinois; Ex-

Governor Jenkins, of Colorado; besides a long array of other eminent

men. Before all these he has poised his lance like a true knight, nor

can it be said of him that any of them have laid him low.

But distinguished as he is as an advocate before a jury, he has attained

no less distinction as an examiner of witnesses. No fixedness of

feature, no previous drilling in a cunningly-devised tale can hide the

truth from his trained and watchful eye, which reads the secrets of the

witnesses’ soul as though it were an open page.

Among the multitude of cases whose successful conduct has made him

famous, a want of space forbids a mention of but a few.

One of his most noteworthy triumphs was obtained in the trial of the

train-wreckers at Paola and Wyandotte in Kansas, when he and associates

defeated the array of legal talent opposed to him by the trusted

lieutenants of Jay Gould.

Another was his triumphant vindication of Fotheringham, the alleged

dishonest messenger of the American Express Co., whose character he

exonerated and for whom he secured the substantial damages of $20,000.

Another was in the successful defence at Gallatin, Mo., of the

celebrated Frank James.

But what has always seemed to me to have been his crowning professional

success was attained in the trial of Michael Horner, charged with murder

in the first degree for the killing of Boswell, at Mt. Vernon, Lawrence

Co., Mo. Both the accused and his victim had been farmers of Lawrence

Co. for about five years before the commencement of the feud between

them, which had its origin in a charge brought by Boswell against Horner

(and denied by the latter) of seduction of the former’s sister. A

succession of personal encounters ensued, but the combatants were always

separated by mutual friends. At length, on July 18, 1885, Boswell, while

at work in his field, saw Horner riding down the lane. Leaving his

reaper and climbing the fence, he began a vigorous bombardment of his

old enemy with fragments of rock. Horner, without dismounting, drew his

revolver and emptied the contents of three chambers into the body of

Boswell, who fell lifeless to the ground. In due time the slayer was

arraigned, tried, found guilty of murder, and sentenced to confinement

in the penitentiary for ninety-nine years. A second trial was granted,

and occupied two weeks, 300 witnesses being summoned. The excitement

throughout the country was intense, and the court-room was daily crowded

by ardent sympathizers with either side. But Charles P. Johnson was for

the defence, and so ably did he conduct and plead the cause of his

client that the jury, after brief deliberation, returned a verdict of

manslaughter in the fourth degree, and the penalty was fixed at a fine

of $600. The scene which followed the reading of the verdict would need

the pencil of a Hogarth to portray. Horner—who, despite all the efforts

of his friends to secure his release on bail, had lain in jail since the

killing—remained for a moment motionless through agitation; then jumping

three feet into the air and wildly gesticulating, he shouted the

Southern warhoop (known in the North as the “rebel yell”), which was

taken up and repeated again and again by the vast crowd which packed the

chamber to overflowing. In a delirium of joy, his young wife, hastily

entrusting her baby to the nearest pair of arms, sprang toward the jury,

whom she hugged and kissed by turns. Then both she and her husband

mounted to the bench and grasped the judge by either hand, which they

shook as vehemently as though they had been veritable pump-handles. In

vain did the sheriff seek to restore order, but he was finally compelled

to suffer the wild enthusiasm to find its vent. Horner was overwhelmed

with congratulations, in which joined both friends and former foes. And

in the midst of the wild confusion—in it, but not of it—stood the great

advocate, whose genius, labor and eloquence had rendered such a result

possible.

It may be that the reader will think that the author has been too lavish

in his encomiums of this truly great man. Possibly so; yet the praise

proceeds from the love of a grateful heart. Were I to find myself in the

antipodes, and involved in difficulties calling for the aid of sound

legal advice, the one man of all others to whom I would apply, and whose

services, did my means permit, I should certainly retain, is Charles P.

Johnson.

The reasons for my preference are easily explained. Governor Johnson,

unlike many other lawyers who have attained prominence as practitioners

in the criminal courts, does not desert his clients after he has secured

their acquittal. To me he has proved a friend in need and in deed at the

darkest hours of my life. He knows my character thoroughly; he has

defended me more than once; and that I have not fallen into graver

crimes than those which I now confess with shame, is due to his wise,

fatherly counsels, and to the fact that he first implanted in my breast

the desire to reform my life.

Nor is my case a solitary instance. His great brain is no less quick to

conceive than is his great heart to execute. His quiet charity is as

unostentatious as it is far reaching and comprehensive, and the number

of those who owe their reformation to his patient, untiring efforts,

will be known only when the secrets of all hearts are revealed.

THE GAMBLING HOUSES OF NEW YORK.

Despite the fact that there is upon the statute books of New York a

stringent law against gaming, the great American metropolis has been

called—and not unjustly—the very paradise of gamblers. It is said, by

carping critics, that there is scarcely a street without its gambling

resort, all private, of course, yet the location of which is well known

to those who indulge in that excitement.

The favorite game—as all over the North American continent—is faro, and

the stakes vary according to the class to which the house belongs in

which the game is played. In some of the lowest hells a stake of five

cents is not despised. These houses are frequented by the poorest

working men, discharged soldiers, broken down gamblers and street boys.

In this connection it may be said, that of all the street boys in the

world perhaps those of New York are most precocious. It is no uncommon

sight to see a shoe-black, scarcely three feet high, walk up to the

table or “bank,” as it is euphoniously termed, and stake a nickel with

the air of a young spendthrift to “whom money is no object.”

At any of the later hours of the night, in any one of the cheap eating

houses which abound in or near Broadway, from Spring Street north to

Tenth Street, can be found one or more shabby-genteel men who bear

unmistakable evidence in their speech, manner and appearance, of long

continued, and generally disastrous, “fighting with the tiger.” These

are the _canaille_ of gamblers, who hang precariously on the edge of a

terrible fascination, and manage to supply the necessities of life in a

cheap way, from chance success in small bets and by a few dollars picked

up by guiding more profitable customers to the houses where they are

known. Strictly speaking, there are more “cappers” than gamblers. They

are not only at the bottom of the “profession,” but their right to the

proud (?) title of “sporting men” is stoutly denied by their more

prosperous and reputable brethren of the green cloth. Improvident,

uncertain in habits and language, unscrupulous, they are the natural

products of sporting life, but which the faro banks nevertheless strive,

although in vain, to shake off. Every house has several of these forlorn

attaches, who play when they have money, and introduce a desirable

stranger when they can; who are constant in their attendance upon the

banquets that are daily spread in these houses, but are thus obliged to

take the chances as to lodgings, and raiment. When they have worn

threadbare the hospitality of the gaming house-keeper (as sometimes

happens), they subsist—God and themselves alone know how.

Very different in most respects is another class of gamblers who can be

seen any fine afternoon decorating Broadway with the splendor of their

apparel, for, as a rule, the sporting fraternity is unexcelled in

elegance of attire. If you meet in Broadway a man who lounges listlessly

onward as though he had no well-defined object in life, and whose

garments are cut in the latest style and of the finest material, you may

wager he is a gambler in good luck, provided his silk hat is in the

highest possible state of polish and his watch chain unusually massive.

Very elegant in appearance, very quiet and gentlemanly in their

demeanor, are these professional sports of the better class at all times

and in all places. Gamblers of this type are usually men of intelligence

far above the average, and among the hundreds of men eminent in science,

literature and art who flock to the high-toned hells of New York, it is

no easy task to find greater brilliancy of wit, higher polish of

deportment, or more geniality of manner than are exhibited by the

dealers at first-class metropolitan gaming-houses.

In the Bowery and on the side streets, may be met professionals of a

very different class; brazen-faced men, with bristly mustaches and hair

closely cropped like a convict, with apparel obtrusively gaudy and

loaded with jewelry apparently of gold and precious stones. These are

men to be avoided as the sharks which their appearance and their every

act proclaim them to be. They are proprietors of, or “steerers” for the

third-rate dens, where a “square” game is never played, even by

accident. Should faro fail to return a profit, these fellows are ready

to try anything else, from a game of poker down to outright robbery, as

a means of obtaining money. Honest labor they abhor and despise. Any

man, they say, can make a living by work, but it requires a smart man to

get it without. They cherish a deep and abiding conviction of their own

shrewdness; and their egregious conceit sometimes leads them to attempt

some one of the confidence games in which “skinners” are adepts, in the

perpetration of which they usually ingloriously come to grief through

their native clumsiness. When they have no small dens of their own,

their chief occupation and main reliance is as “ropers in,” and in view

of their uncouth, repulsive appearance and address it is surprising that

they are as successful as they are in enticing strangers into the

wretched holes where they can be fleeced.

These strangers, thus inveigled, come under the name of “occasional

players,” and are the vivification of all gambling, whether guided by

the better class of ropers into gilded resorts, or by these vampires

into the lower cribs. So long as one sporting man wins from or loses to

another, no harm is done to the community at large, but no good is done

the gamblers. It is the “occasional players” who furnish the means to

replenish the faro banks, without which, they would soon be empty; the

strangers who play not more than two or three times in their lives are

the meat upon which these harpies fatten. It is not singular, that the

novice is so apt to try his luck when he has once been induced to enter

the gambling house. The universal game is faro; and looks so simple, so

safe, so entirely fair, that the chances appear rather in favor of, than

against the outside player.

It is made yet more alluring by its surroundings. Nowhere has sumptuous

elegance been attained in such perfection as in the first-class gambling

saloons of New York. Generally each has a suite of rooms, the largest of

which is devoted to faro, with perhaps a roulette wheel in one corner,

while others are sacred to short card games, and one is always

exclusively used as a banqueting hall. All are furnished without regard

to cost, but there is never anything in any of them to offend the most

fastidious taste, although there may be sometimes a grim humor in some

of the decorations, as is the case in one house where a magnificent oil

painting of a tiger is suspended from the wall immediately over the

table, so that none of the players can look up without meeting the

glaring eye of the beast, which is held to be the presiding deity of the

game. But such suggestions as this are very rare, as in general there is

nothing anywhere but the faro table to declare the uses of the place.

Take that away, and the visitor would imagine himself in the private

parlors of a gentleman whose great wealth was fortunately equaled by his

refined taste. This delusion would be strengthened by a seat at the

banquet, where the viands are of all possible varieties, and the best

quality, and are served with a finished elegance in the plate and all

table appointments, including the waiters, which are not exceeded even

in the most select private houses. At the table and on the sideboard in

the saloon are liquors of excellent quality, which, although freely

offered, are never pressed upon the visitor, and it is possible for a

man to frequent these resorts for years without acquiring a taste for

liquor. There is, in fact, very little drinking in them, and none at all

of that fast and furious potation which hurries so many thousands of

Americans to physical, mental and moral ruin. No sight is rarer in a

first-class gaming house than to see a man maudlin drunk. An intoxicated

man is never allowed to profane the place. If he appears in the person

of a valuable patron, he is quietly led away, to be put to bed in some

remote room; but if he comes as an unknown casual he is put into the

street with little ceremony but without violence.

These statements, however, apply, of course, only to the first-class and

most prosperous establishments. The places next in order ape them in

everything, but are far below them in all. A second-class house has

sometimes even more of glitter than its rival, but it is easy to see

that it is pinchbeck grandeur. There is an absence, too, of the refined

taste which presides over the decoration and furnishing of the better

house. These rooms are glaringly painted, filled with odds and ends of

furniture of all ages and patterns, so that they look not unlike the

wards of a hospital for superannuated and diseased household goods

turned over in their old age to the auctioneer’s hammer. The suppers and

liquors, however, most plainly proclaim the lower caste of the place.

While the variety of both is abundant, the first are execrably cooked

and served, and the quality of the latter would not be strange to the

most experienced patron of the ordinary Bowery saloons, which are

proverbial for furnishing every kind of beverage except good.

But if the second grade houses are bad in these respects, there are some

below them which are much worse. If a man can digest the so called “game

suppers,” and survive any considerable drinking of the liquids which are

offered as pure whiskey and brandy in the lowest classes of faro houses,

he ought to be able to insure his life on the most favorable terms, and

the appointments of these houses are in keeping with their

entertainment. The chairs, sofas and carpets were of the most tawdry

description when new, but are ragged with long and ill usage; the

gambling checks, which range in price from twenty-five cents to one

dollar, are grimed and dented with much handling; the faro table,

elsewhere enticing with its newness and cleanliness, here is old and

smeared with grease; the dealing-box, which in first-class houses is of

pure and polished silver, here is of pewter, and dingy. So are all the

_minutiae_ of these places. They are repulsively suggestive of squalid

and unprosperous vice; and if by any chance a gentleman enters, he

leaves at once, to lose his money under more elegant, or at least

cleaner, auspices.

Faro houses in New York have rarely exceeded one hundred in number,

except during the latter part of the war, when speculation, going mad in

Wall street, stalked over the land, demoralizing and ruining thousands.

In those feverish times faro-playing naturally increased with stock

gambling, and the faro houses multiplied until they fluctuated between

one hundred and twenty and one hundred and thirty in number. Of late

years, however, they have decreased, and a few years ago, when public

excitement on the subject had given rise to the sensational statement

that the city contained six hundred of them, ninety-two was the largest

number that could be found open at any time. The number seems small in

comparison to the size of the city, which, beside the large resident

reckless population, contains tens of thousands of strangers, anxious

not to miss any of the sensations of the metropolis. Yet these faro

banks not only are enough to do all the business presented and enticed

to them, but some of them have a very precarious life owing to the lack

of custom. The first and second-class houses are under very heavy

expenses, a principal item of which takes the shape of rent. They must

be and are located in the principal thoroughfares near the leading

hotels, with the exception of those anomalous institutions known as “day

games,” which are found in Ann, Fulton, and Chambers streets, for

accommodation of the business men, many of whom have acquired the bad

habit of seeking solace for the vexations of legitimate transactions in

the delights of faro. A seizure was made of these places lately, upon

the ground that they are of all the gambling establishments in the city

the most dangerous to the public. It is not necessary to endorse this

statement in order to justify the attempt to suppress day gambling, but

if activity in this direction is intended to excuse the toleration of

all other houses, it will result in more of evil than good. The night

houses, into which strangers are inveigled and robbed, are the resorts

of young men of fortune, who here take the first step on a downward road

which leads them and their families to shame and ruin, are worthy of at

least equal attention. Beside being more frequented, these night houses

have a much greater number of hours for play. The day houses are in full

operation four or five hours per day, but in the night houses a game can

be had in the afternoon and at any hour at night, while the average of

play, take them altogether, is fully eighteen hours of each twenty-four.

In the absorption and waste of capital, the half-score of day houses

cannot be compared to those where most of the play is at night.

It is well-nigh impossible to get accurate statistics upon this point,

and resort must therefore be had to approximate figures, which are,

however, very near the exact truth. The faro banks of New York have as

capital a little less than one million dollars, which is very unequally

divided, as the ninety-two houses vary from $2,000 to $50,000 each,

although only three or four have the latter amount, and the average

banking capital is about $10,000. It is impossible to say what amount of

money changes hands upon this basis. It is asserted that the average

yearly winnings of all the banks taken together is about fifty per cent.

over and above the expenditure required to keep up the establishments,

so that every year these gamblers absorb about $500,000, while the gross

profits are more than 100 per cent. These figures are conclusive that

the way of the transgressor, if he be an occasional player rather than a

dealer, is hard.

“Bunko Land,” on Broadway, of a fair summer evening, extends from

Twenty-third to Thirty-third street. Here, meandering softly along in

the twilight, or boldly facing the glare of the electric lamps, New

York’s gamblers are to be seen in mid-summer and mid-winter alike. They

know well enough who their friends in authority are. They are fully

convinced that charges against McLaughlin and Carpenter, like charges

against Williams—which have been so often and so unsuccessfully made—are

not likely to come to anything as long as their friends are on deck. And

that means, of course, just as long as the gamblers’ weekly stipend is

forthcoming.

Until the furor over the raids on Nos. 86 Fulton street and 15 Ann

street shall have faded out, as all the anti-gambling furors do, it will

no doubt continue to be true that “gambling has stopped in New York.”

That for the public. Of course, gambling never stops; it is only a

little harder now to find a “game,” and a little harder to get into it

after it is found. A couple of years ago all gambling was stopped in New

York—officially—for eighteen months. John Daly moved from his familiar

stand, No. 39 West Twenty-ninth street, to a private house on Forty-

second street, and only admitted his “true friends,” and such of the

public as could produce at the door, cards of invitation. There was a

similar and general shifting of quarters and barring of doors in Ann

street, Fulton, Barclay, Fourteenth streets, and at the famous old 818

Broadway, which goes on forever, apparently, however raids come and go.

That sudden revolution in the habits and habitats of Gotham’s “sports”

was due, just as their present stringency of circumstances is due, to a

raid from authorities other than those locally in charge of the

precincts where the gambling houses are situated.

All raids, to be in any degree effectual, must be made either directly

from Police Headquarters, or by Comstock’s or Whitney’s men. This bold

assertion is not made—everybody knows it is true—for the purpose of

warranting inferences as to the integrity of the officers immediately in

charge of the district where the games are in progress, but because it

states an undeniable fact. Inferences are easy. This is one of the few

readily accessible facts about gambling.

WHERE GAMES ARE RUNNING NOW.

There are gambling games to which the initiated can gain access now at

No. 39 West Twenty-ninth street, in Fourteenth street, the second door

from Thiess’, at No. 818 Broadway, at Gallagher’s in Barclay street, at

Delacey’s in Chatham Square, at Nos. 12 and 15 Ann street—all close

together—Bret Haines’ in Barclay street, and at a good many quiet haunts

of tigers so well trained that their footsteps are like velvet and their

howl is inaudible. So it is scarcely necessary to go for mere sport to

Phil Daly’s Long Branch Club, against which “Baron” Pardonnet has been

waging such an ineffectual warfare, or to the famous Saratoga Club, at

which “Colonel” Shepard has been vainly launching the awful curse of his

boycott.

The raid which made John Daly move, and which produced so great a

stringency in the chip market for the time being, started at No. 1 Ann

street. It is rarely that an eye-witness describes, from the inside, an

official descent on a gambling house. There are generally too many

personal reasons for silence. Here is a description by a player at the

time of that famous raid. It might also serve as a good description of

almost any raid on New York games:

“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 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.”

“That’s all right,” answered Allriver, “but what’s to prevent us from

being pulled the very first night?”

“I’ve inquired into that,” replied the gambler, “and am assured on high

authority that we will be guaranteed police protection for exactly $25 a

week. The usual price is from $25 up $100; we are getting off cheap.”

Mr. Allriver is still thinking about this offer and the remarkable

statement with it. There is food for thought in it for the tax-payers.

But the charge that police officials are bribed by gamblers is—as the

old English Judge said about the charge of assault on women—“most easy

to make and most difficult to disprove.” It has the advantage, however,

of being even more difficult to prove.

Suppose a police captain or lieutenant were paid $25 a week by the

proprietor of a gambling house for protection or advance notice of

raids, no papers, or writing, or receipt, or voucher of any kind will

pass between them. The proprietor and the police officer will not meet,

nor will they be seen or known to communicate with each other in any way

except through trusted intermediaries. Through them, one representing

the “sports” and the other the “boss cops,” the agreement will be made

and the money will be paid. They may meet each other and slide a “wad”

from fist to fist as they shake hands on Broadway of a fine afternoon,

or they may do their business over a friendly glass of beer at a Sixth

avenue saloon table about 2 A. M. If either of these agents tries to

squeal, his principal promptly denounces and disavows all knowledge of

him. Then who is believed, the poor, unknown, characterless go-between

or the “reputable business man” and “faithful police official?”

The elaborate system of bolts, bars, chains, double doors, and the like,

which confronts one—either stranger in search of sport, or officer in

search of prey—at the entrance of an established gambling house is not

intended as a direct barrier to the admission of those in authority.

Unauthorized raiders are of course kept out by this means. But no

proprietor of a gambling house in New York would dare to maintain that

system of defense in the face of known police or detective authority. It

would “get the force down on him” forever. When an opening is demanded

“in the name of the law,” the bolts are shot back, the chains loosened,

the big nail-studded doors are unlocked. But all this undoing, and

unloosening and unfastening takes so much time that the proprietor has

had an opportunity before the police get into the “hell” itself to put

away that which he wishes to conceal, and to put it away so securely

that all the police in town couldn’t find it unless they tore down the

walls and pulled up the flooring. It is quite needless to say that the

players, if they choose, may also utilize this interval by escaping over

the roof or down the back stairs.

That some of the New York gambling houses are, or have been, directly

connected with Police Headquarters by means of a private wire, or at

least with the nearest station house from which a raid would be most

likely to be made, is firmly believed by some sporting men. But how

prove it? _Quien Sabe?_ Certain it is that there are no “slicker”

citizens nor more artful dodgers, no more long-headed law breakers in

this great city of “slick” citizens and artful dodgers, than are the

professional gamblers. Not so very long ago, when the notoriety of John

Daly’s, as a first-class gambling house, almost across the street from

the Gilsey was becoming a little too loud, a stranger who in the

language of the street, thought he was “fly” and who had found out—he

thought—just what door to knock at to find Daly’s and a game, hammered

at the door in question vociferously and was surprised to have the door

opened in his face by a neat maid-servant, who asked him what his

business was, assured him the place was an apartment house for gentlemen

and offered to show him the rooms. He was dumfounded and retreated in

good order.

Next door, all the while, was an innocent-looking millinery shop. He

watched out of the hotel window hour after hour the next day, until he

saw a gambler, with whom he was acquainted, come down the steps from

“the apartment house.” He sauntered over, joined his friend whom he had

known in Denver, and asked him to show him a game, and was taken into

“the apartment house.” A large and massive-looking hat rack adorned the

back hall. Seizing it by two of the hat pegs, the gambler gave it a

slight twist and turned it on its well-oiled axis, disclosing a door

into the rear of the first floor of the next house. Here, back of the

“millinery store,” the festive roulette ball was clicking and the tiger

was bucking and being bucked vigorously. Such is life in a large city!

GAMBLERS COMING HOME FROM THE RACES.

It is on the parlor cars returning from Monmouth and Brighton Beach that

the New York gamester is seen in little groups of three or four in the

gayest of his mid-summer aspects. No matter if he hasn’t won a single

bet all day, the gambler is “blooded” and must ride home in a parlor

car. There is a group composed of three of the typical Gothamite race

gamblers. The car has hardly started from the track before the porter

has slipped into its nickel-plated sockets the tidy little table, which

may serve either for cards or lunch. A crisp white napkin is deftly

spread over it and a “cold bottle” produced, with three glasses, on a

silver tray, from the porter’s larder. A cold chicken is brought out

with some slices of white bread and a pot or two of golden butter. No

Rothschild or Vanderbilt could order or eat a better meal under the

circumstances, or sit down after a day of “sport” to a more inviting-

looking board while whirling homeward on the rail in an easy chair. Yet

these three men are plain, ordinary, common, badly-dressed, thick-

fingered, blear-eyed and uncouth-looking “gams.” There is no “gentleman

John Oakhurst” about them. Many New Yorkers recognize them and some nod

as they pass on.

The big-boned man, with the ruddy, clean-shaven face, short, stiff gray

hair and puffy eye-lids, eats the food earnestly and laughs, and talks

in an even coarse voice. At present he is the life of the party. He

wears a grayish-brown check suit, not very “loud,” a faded derby, and

his fingers need a manicure. They are thick at the ends and do not look

capable of deft manipulation. No doubt their owner can deal off the

bottom of the pack if he wants to, without detection. He looks about

fifty-two. His companions are younger. One of them wears an outlandish-

looking round-crowned straw hat and a shabby suit of clothes. He has a

pert, feverish-looking, but insignificant face, a red mustache and a

tilted nose. The third is good-looking, dark and quiet. They talk

eagerly and simultaneously, and not at all quietly of the races and of

the bets, and their winnings and losings. By and by the table is cleared

away and the “cold bottle” put on and big cigars are brought by the

steward, who is told to “fetch the best he’s got.” Nobody has any more

fun coming home from the races than professional gamblers have. They are

not half bad at heart, perhaps. Before lighting the biggest cigars the

steward’s got, they take off their hats and ask the only two ladies in

this parlor car full of men if they have any “objection to smoke.”

The most interesting plunger at cards in New York to-day is, in all

probability, that broken-down shoe-cutter yonder, who looks scarcely

“good for a ten-cent drink,” but who, not very long ago, made the old-

timers’ hair stand on end. His name is Bolt McHackin, and his home is in

Newark. McHackin is, when not “on a tear,” one of the most skillful

shoe-cutters in the country, and able to earn from $60 to $75 a week at

his trade. His shears turn out fashionable “uppers” with a celerity and

skilfulness rarely found and highly prized. When he has worked hard for

three or four weeks and earned a couple of hundred dollars he gambles

with a reckless prodigality. In more than one game he has risen from the

table a loser to the full amount of his stakes, returning to his work

not one whit wiser, and only waiting to try his experiment again. He has

been known to make large winnings. Yet to “break a bank” where all the

appliances for playing a “brace” game are ready at hand has been

demonstrated to be an impossibility.

A NEW YORK GAMBLERS’ CATALOGUE.

If any doubt exists in the mind of the reader as to the truth of the

exposure of the “faked” devices described in this volume, the author

would especially commend to the attention of such skeptics the following

catalogue, issued by a New York house, which is here reproduced,

_verbatim et literatim_; only the publisher’s name being suppressed.

Similar catalogues are being scattered broadcast over the land. They

fall into the hands of young men, to whose curiosity and imagination

they appeal with fatal effect. They are easily obtained, anyone may

secure one by asking for it, and the United States mail service will

safely carry and promptly deliver it. Do parents wish their sons, just

entering into manhood, to be exposed to such snares as these here set

for the unwary? Need any further argument be adduced to justify the

author in the publication of this work?

That fraudulent devices of the character described are manufactured and

sold is conclusively demonstrated by the issuance and dissemination of

catalogues such as this. It is the mission of the FOOLS OF FORTUNE to

strike at the root of this evil by holding up to the ridicule as well as

the condemnation of the public the schemes and tricks by which such

unprincipled scoundrels seek to debauch the morals of the young, and

defraud any victim whom chance may send to their net.

The author believes that the average reader will peruse this catalogue

with mingled emotions of interest, surprise and disgust. To the

uninitiated it will prove a revelation of depravity at once horrifying

and appalling. Yet in itself it confirms and corroborates every

statement herein made as to the practices and methods of professional

gamblers. The picture is a dark one, yet if it is defective in its

fidelity to truth, the fault lies in a deficiency rather than an excess

of coloring. Like vampires, these men fasten themselves upon the body of

society, ready to draw from its veins the very life current on which its

existence depends.

The following letter from a New York dealer in sporting goods explains

itself:

“DEAR SIR:—In reply to yours, there is only one sure way to win at

cards, etc., and that is to get Tools to work with and then to use

them with discretion, which is the secret of all Gambling and the way

that all Gamblers make their money.

Yours truly,

—— ——.

ADVANTAGE, OR MARKED BACK PLAYING CARDS.

By which you can tell the color, suit and size, as well by the backs

as by the faces. They are an exact imitation of the fair playing cards

in common use, and are adapted for any game, where it would be

impossible for your opponent to win, as you would know just what he

had in his hand and could act accordingly. These cards can be learned

in an hour with the instructions which are sent with each pack, so

that you can tell every card the instant you see it, both size and

suit.

N. B. Be sure and ask for the Key or Directions, as without them the

cards would be of no use to you unless you are a first-class

professional gambler.

THE POKER RING.

An ingenious little contrivance for Marking the cards while playing,

in a perfectly safe and systematic manner, so that in half an hour you

can tell each card as well by the back as by the face. Although it is

not as yet generally known, it is now in use by a few of the oldest

and best professional players in the country. Anybody can use it at

once.