PIKE AND POKER
It was before we left St. Louis that I received a letter inviting us to
visit in the town of Louisiana, Mo. I quote a portion of it:
Louisiana is in Pike County, a county famous for its big red
apples, miles of rock roads, fine old estates, Rhine scenery,
capons, rare old country hams, and poker. Pike County means more to
Missouri than Missouri does to Pike.
Do you remember "Jim Bludso of the 'Prairie Belle'"?
_He weren't no saint--them engineers
Is pretty much all alike--
One wife in Natchez-under-the-Hill
And another one here in Pike._
We can show you "the willer-bank on the right," where Bludso ran
the 'Prairie Belle' aground and made good with his life his old
promise:
_I'll hold her nozzle agin the bank
Till the last galoot's ashore._
We can also show you the home of Champ Clark, and the largest
nursery in the world, and a meadow where, twenty-five years ago, a
young fellow threw down his hayfork and said to his companion:
"Sam, I'm going to town to study law with Champ Clark. Some day I'm
going to be Governor of this State." He was Elliott W. Major, and
he is Governor to-day.
The promise held forth by this letter appealed to me. It is always
interesting to see whether a man like Champ Clark lives in a house with
ornamental iron fences on the roof and iron urns in the front yard;
likewise there is a sort of fascination for a man of my extensive
ignorance, in hearing not merely how the Governor of Missouri decided to
become Governor, but in finding out his name. Then those hams and
capons--how many politicians can compare for interest with a tender
capon or a fine old country ham? And perhaps more alluring to me than
any of these was the idea of going to visit in a strange State, and a
strange town, and a strange house--the house of a total stranger.
We accepted.
Our host met us with his touring car and proceeded to make good his
promises about the nursery, and the scenery, and the roads, and the
estates, and as we bowled along he told us about "Pike." It is indeed a
great county. And the fact that it was originally settled by Virginians,
Kentuckians, and Carolinians still stamps it strongly with the qualities
of the South. Though north of St. Louis on the map, it is south of St.
Louis in its spirit. Indeed, Louisiana is the most Southern town in
appearance and feeling that we visited upon our travels. The broad black
felt hats one sees about the streets, the luxuriant mustaches and
goatees--all these things mark the town, and if they are not enough, you
should see "Indy" Gordon as she walks along puffing at a bulldog pipe
black as her own face.
Never outside of Brittany and Normandy have I seen roads so full of
animals as those of Pike County. From the great four-horse teams,
drawing produce to and from the beautiful estate called "Falicon," to
the mule teams and the saddle horses and the cows and pigs and chickens
and dogs, all the quadrupeds and bipeds domesticated by mankind were
there upon the roads to meet us and to protest, by various antics,
against the invasion of the motor car. Dogs hurled themselves at the car
as though to suicide; chickens extended themselves in shrieking dives
across our course; pigs arose from the luxurious mud with grunts of
frantic disapproval, and cantered heavily into the fields; cows trotted
lumberingly before us, their hind legs and their fore legs moving, it
seemed, without relation to each other; a goat ran round and round the
tree to which he was attached; mules pointed their ears to heaven, and
opened their eyes wide in horror and amazement; beautiful saddle horses
bearing countrymen, or rosy-cheeked young women from the farms, tried to
climb into the boughs of wayside trees for safety, and four-horse teams
managed to get themselves involved in a manner only rivaled by a ball of
yarn with which a kitten is allowed to work its own sweet will.
Our host took all these matters calmly. When a mule protested at our
presence on the road, it would merely serve as a reminder that, "Pike
County furnished most of the mules for the Spanish war"; or, when a
saddle horse showed signs of homicidal purpose, it would draw the calm
observation, "Pike is probably the greatest county in the whole United
States for saddle horses. 'Missouri King,' the undefeated champion
saddle horse of the world, was raised here."
So we progressed amid the outraged animals.
My feeling as I alighted at last on the step before our host's front
door was one of definite relief. For dinner is the meal I care for most,
and man, with all his faults, the animal I most enjoy.
The house was genial like its owner--it was just the sort of house I
like; large and open, with wide halls, spacious rooms, comfortable beds
and chairs, and ash trays everywhere.
"I've asked some men in for dinner and a little game," our host informed
us, as he left us to our dressing.
Presently we heard motors arriving in the drive, beneath our windows.
When we descended, the living room was filled with men in dinner suits.
(Oh, yes; they wear them in those Mississippi River towns, and they fit
as well as yours does!)
When we had been introduced we all moved to the dining room.
At each place was a printed menu with the heading "At Home Abroad"--a
hospitable inversion of the general title of these chapters--and with
details as follows:
A COUNTRY DINNER
Old Pike County ham,
Pike County capons
and other Pike County essentials,
with Pike County Colonels.
At the bottom of the card was this--shall I call it warning?
Senator Warner once said to Colonel Roosevelt: "_Pike County babies
cut their teeth on poker chips_."
I have already said that Pike is a county with a Southern savor, but I
had not realized how fully that was true until I dined there. I will not
say that I have never tasted such a dinner, for truth I hold even above
politeness. All I will say is that if ever before I had met with such a
meal the memory of it has departed--and, I may add, my memory for famous
meals is considered good to the point of irritation.
The dinner (save for the "essentials") was entirely made up of products
of the county. More, it was even supervised and cooked by county
products, for two particularly sweet young ladies, members of the
family, were flying around the kitchen in their pretty evening gowns,
helping and directing Molly.
Molly is a pretty mulatto girl. Her skin is like a smooth, light-colored
bronze, her eye is dark and gentle, like that of some domesticated
animal, her voice drawls in melodious cadences, and she has a sort of
shyness which is very fetching.
"Ah cain't cook lak they used to cook in the ole days," she smiled in
response to my tribute to the dinner, later. "The Kuhnel was askin' jus'
th' othah day if ah could make 'im some ash cake, but ah haid to tell
'im ah couldn't. Ah've seen ma gran'fatha make it lots o' times, but
folks cain't make it no mo', now-a-days."
Poor benighted Northerner that I am, I had to ask what ash cake was. It
is a kind of corn cake, Molly told me, the parent, so to speak, of the
corn dodger, and the grandparent of hoecake. It has to be prepared
carefully and then cooked in the hot ashes--cooked "jes so," as Molly
said.
Having learned about ash cake, I demanded more Pike County culinary
lore, whereupon I was told, partly by my host, and partly by Molly,
about the oldtime wedding cooks.
Wedding cooks were the best cooks in the South, supercooks, with
state-wide reputations. When there was a wedding a dinner was given at
the home of the bride, for all the wedding guests, and it was in the
preparation of this repast that the wedding cook of the bride's family
showed what she could do. That dinner was on the day of the wedding. On
the next day the entire company repaired to the home of the groom's
family, where another dinner was served--a dinner in which the wedding
cook belonging to this family tried to outdo that of the day before.
This latter feast was known as the "infair." But all these old Southern
customs seem to have departed now, along with the wedding cooks
themselves. The latter very seldom came to sale, being regarded as the
most valuable of all slaves. Once in a while when some leading family
was in financial difficulties and was forced to sell its wedding cook
she would bring as much as eight or ten times the price of an ordinary
female slave.
* * * * *
After dinner, when we moved out to the living room, we found a large,
green table all in place, with the chips arranged in little piles. But
let me introduce you to the players.
First, there was Colonel Edgar Stark, our host, genial and warm-hearted
over dinner; cold and inscrutable behind his spectacles when poker chips
appeared.
Then Colonel Charlie Buffum, heavily built, but with a similar dual
personality.
Then Colonel Frank Buffum, State Highway Commissioner; or, as some one
called him later in the evening, when the chips began to gather at his
place, State "highwayman."
Then Colonel Dick Goodman, banker, raconteur, and connoisseur of edibles
and "essentials."
Then Colonel George S. Cake, who, when not a Colonel, is a Commodore:
commander of the "Betsy," flagship of the Louisiana Yacht Club, and the
most famous craft to ply the Mississippi since the "Prairie Belle."
(Don't "call" Colonel Cake when he raises you and at the same time
raises his right eyebrow.)
Then Colonel Dick Hawkins, former Collector of the Port of St. Louis,
and more recently (since there has been so little in St. Louis to
collect) a gentleman farmer. (Colonel Hawkins always wins at poker. The
question is not "Will he win?" but "How much?")
Only two men in the game were not, so far as I discovered, Colonels.
One, Major Dave Wald, has been held back in title because of time
devoted to the pursuit of literature. Major Wald has written a book. The
subject of the book is Poker. As a tactician, he is perhaps unrivaled in
Missouri. He will look at a hand and instantly declare the percentage of
chance it stands of filling in the draw, according to the law of chance.
One hand will be, to Major Wald, a "sixteen-time hand"; another a
"thirty-two time hand," and so on--meaning that the player has one
chance in sixteen, or in thirty-two, of filling.
The other player was merely a plain "Mister," like ourselves--Mr. John
W. Matson, the corporation lawyer. At first I felt sorry for Mr. Matson.
It seemed hard that the rank of Colonel had been denied him. But when I
saw him shuffle and deal, I was no longer sorry for him, but for myself.
With the possible exception of General Bob Williams (who won't play any
more now that he has been appointed postmaster), and Colonel Clarence
Buell, who used to play in the big games on the Mississippi boats, Mr.
Matson can shuffle and deal more rapidly and more accurately than any
man in Missouri.
Colonel Buell was present, as was Colonel Lloyd Stark, but neither
played. Colonel Buell had intended to, but on being told that my
companion and I were from New York he declined to "take the money." The
Colonel--but to say "the Colonel" in Pike County is hardly
specific--Colonel Buell, I mean, is the same gentleman who fought the
Indians, long ago, with Buffalo Bill, and who later acted as treasurer
of the Wild West Show on its first trip to Europe. Some one informed me
that the Colonel--Colonel Buell, I mean--was a capitalist, but the
information was beside the mark, for I had already seen the diamond ring
he wears--a most remarkable piece of landscape gardening.
During the evening Colonel Buell, who stood for an hour or two and
watched the play, spoke of certain things that he had seen and done
which, as I estimated it, could not have been seen or done within the
last sixty years. "How old is Colonel Buell?" I asked another Colonel.
"Colonel," asked the Colonel, "how old are you?"
"Colonel," replied the Colonel, "I am exactly in my prime."
"I know that, Colonel," said the Colonel, "but what is your age?"
"Colonel," returned the Colonel suavely, "I have forgotten my exact age.
But I know that I am somewhere between eighty and one hundred and
forty-two."
It was Mr. Matson's deal. He dealt. The cards passed through the air and
fell, one on the other, in neat piles. (If you prefer it, Mr. Matson can
drop a fan-shaped hand before you, all ready to pick up.) And from the
time that the first hand was played I knew that here, as in St. Louis,
my companion and I were babes among the lions. I do not know how he
played, but I do know that I played along as best I could, only trying
not to lose too much money at once.
But why rehearse the pathetic story? I spoke in a former chapter of
Missouri poker, and Pike County is a county in Missouri. Bet on a good
pat hand and some one always holds a better one. Bluff and they call
you. Call and they beat you. There is no way of winning from Missouri.
Missouri poker players are mahatmas. They have an occult sense of cards.
Babes at their mothers' breasts can tell the difference between a
straight and a flush long before they have the power of speech. Once,
while in Pike County, I asked a little boy how many brothers and sisters
he had. "One brother and three sisters," he replied, and added: "A full
house."
The Missouri gentlemen, so gay, so genial, at the dinner table, take on
a frigid look when the cards and chips appear. They turn from gentle,
kindly human beings into relentless, ravening wolves, each intent upon
the thought of devouring the other. And when, over a poker game, some
player seems to enter into a pleasant conversation, the other players
know that even that is a bluff--a blind to cover up some diabolic plot.
Once during the game, for instance, Colonel Hawkins started in to tell
me something of his history. And I, bland simpleton, believed we were
conversing _sans_ ulterior motive.
"I used to be in politics," he said. "Then I was in the banking
business. But I've gone back to farming now, because it is the only
honest business in the world. In fact--"
But at that juncture the steely voices of half the other players at the
table interrupted.
"Ante!" they cried. "Ante, farmer!"
Whereupon Colonel Hawkins, who by that time had to crane his neck to see
the table over his pile of chips--a pile of chips like the battlements
of some feudal lord--anted suavely.
By midnight Colonel Buell, who had stood behind me for a time and
watched my play, showed signs of fatigue and anguish. And a little
later, after having seen me try to "put it over" with three sixes, he
sighed heavily and went home--a fine, slender, courtly figure, straight
as a gun barrel, walking sadly out into the night. Next Major Wald
ceased to play for himself, but began to take an interest in my hand.
Under his supervision during the last fifteen minutes of the game I made
a tiny dent in Colonel Hawkins's stacks of chips. But it is only just to
Colonel Hawkins to say that, by that time, the Missourians were so sorry
for us that they were making the most desperate efforts not to win from
us any more than they could help.
When the game broke up, Major Wald and Colonel Hawkins showed concern
about our future.
"How far are you young men going, did you say?" asked Colonel Hawkins.
"To the Pacific Coast," I answered.
At that the two veteran poker players looked at each other solemnly, in
silence, and shook their heads.
"All the way to the coast, eh?" demanded Major Wald. Then: "Do you
expect to play cards much as you go along?"
I wished to uphold the honor of New York as best I could, so I tried to
reply gamely.
"Oh, yes," I said. "Whenever anybody wants a game they'll find us
ready."
Again I saw them exchange glances.
"You tell him, Major," said Colonel Hawkins, walking away.
"Young man," said Major Wald, placing his hand kindly on my shoulder, "I
played poker before you were born. I know a good deal about it. You
wouldn't take offense if I gave you a pointer about your game?"
"On the contrary," I said, thinking I was about to hear the inner
secrets of Missouri poker, "I shall be most grateful."
"If I advise you," he pursued, "will you agree to follow my advice?"
"Certainly."
"Well," said the Major, "don't you play poker any more while you're in
the West. Wait till you get back to New York."
* * * * *
Seeing the houses of the players next day as I drove about the county, I
suspected that even these had been built around the game of poker, for
each house has ample accommodations for the "gang" in case the game
lasts until too late to go home. In the winter the games occur at the
houses of the different Colonels, and there is always a dinner first.
But it is in summer that the greatest games occur, for then it is the
immemorial custom for the Colonels (and Major Wald and Mr. Matson, too,
of course) to charter a steamer and go out on the river. These
excursions sometimes last for the better part of a week. Sometimes they
cruise. Sometimes they go ashore upon an island and camp. "We take a
tribe of cooks and a few cases of 'essentials,'" one of the Colonels
explained to me, "and the game never stops at all."
My companion and I were tired. The mental strain had told upon us. Soon
after the Colonels, the Major, and Mr. Matson went, we retired. It
seemed to me that I had hardly closed my eyes when I heard a faint rap
at my bedroom door. But I must have slept, for there was sunlight
streaming through the window.
"What is it?" I called.
The voice of our host replied.
"Breakfast will be ready any time you want it," he declared. "Will you
have your toddy now?"
Ah! Pike is a great county!
And what do you suppose we had for breakfast? At the center of the table
was a pile of the most beautiful and enormous red apples--fragrant
apples, giving a sweet, appetizing scent which filled the room. I had
thought before that I knew something about apples, but when I tasted
these I became aware that no merely good apple, no merely fine apple,
would ever satisfy my taste again. These apples, which are known as the
"Delicious," are to all other apples that I know as Missouri poker is to
all other poker. They are in a class absolutely alone, and, in case you
get some on a lucky day, I want to tell you how to eat them with your
breakfast. Don't eat them as you eat an ordinary apple, but either fry
them, with a slice of bacon, or cut them up and take them as you do
peaches--that is, with cream and sugar. Did you ever see an apple with
flesh white and firm, yet tender as a pear at the exact point of perfect
ripeness? Did you ever taste an apple that seemed actually to melt upon
your tongue? That is the sort of apple we had for breakfast.