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