That same night Pert, after another stormy interview with her father,
had gone to her room, and, throwing herself on her little white bed, in
a paroxysm of bitter grief, had softly sobbed herself to sleep.
Gradually into her dreams there came the whistled notes of a familiar
little cadence, faint and far away at first, but growing louder and
nearer until she awoke with a start.
It was "a whistle" which Checkers had taught her weeks before, and ran
as follows:
Come, my love, and walk with me.
Yes, my love, I'll walk with thee.
Ta-ra-dum.
[Illustration: music fragment]
At this time, however, Checkers, standing down in the road outside, had
cut the "ta-ra-dum" as flippant and irrelevant--a delicacy which, in
her trepidation, Pert failed to remark. But, jumping up, she lighted
her lamp, and cautiously exposed it at the window for a moment. Then,
thanking fortune that she chanced to be dressed, she slipped a warm
wrap over her shoulders, and stole down the stairs, out into the night.
Checkers folded her in his arms, and kissed her gently. "My darling,"
he murmured, "you haven't let them turn you against me, have you?"
"Why, Checkers dear," she answered looking into his eyes, "the whole
world could n't turn me against you--I love you." Checkers kissed her
again.
In the bright starlight they sat together, once more on the little
rustic bench under the tree, listening with ready sympathy, as each
related to each the trials of the day.
"No, little sweetheart," said Checkers finally, "there is no possible
way for me to stay in Clarksville. The old man is practically right, I
am a pauper, but I won't be long. Pert, I can hustle, when I want to;
I 've got enough money to take me to Chicago, and keep me till I can
get a job. When I get to work I 'll salt every cent, and with any kind
of luck, I 'll come back and get you within a year. A year is not such
a very long while." And with a show of genuine enthusiasm, Checkers
ended by talking the downcast girl into a happy confidence in himself
and the future.
"And now, Pert," he said, solicitously, "it's too cold for you to stay
out here longer; come, we must be brave, and say good-bye."
"O, Checkers," she exclaimed, with a choking sob, suddenly throwing her
arms around his neck, "I can't bear to let you go; I shall be
miserable, miserable without you."
Tenderly Checkers soothed and reasoned with her. Once more their plans
were gone over. Checkers was to leave in the morning for Chicago. He
was to write to her as often as possible, addressing the letters to
Sadie, whom Pert knew she could depend upon. Checkers was to bend
every effort towards getting a position and saving money; and Pert was
to be brave, and wait--the common lot of women.
With his arm around her, lovingly, he led her slowly to the house.
Again and again they said good-bye; but there is something in the word
which makes us linger.
"Some little keepsake, sweetheart," he whispered--"this ribbon, or your
handkerchief."
"No; wait here a minute," she answered. Carefully entering the house,
she crept to her room, and from its hiding-place brought forth a
fifty-dollar gold piece. It was of California gold, octagonal in
shape, and minted many years before.
"Here, dear," she said, returning noiselessly. "Here is a coin that
was given me long ago by my grandfather--take it as a lucky-piece. And
whenever you see it, think of one who loves you and is praying for you.
And, Checkers, if you should have misfortune, and should really need
to, don't hesitate to spend it; because, you see, if you don't have
good luck, so that you do n't need to spend it, why it is n't a lucky
piece, and you 'd better get rid of it--that is, if--if you have to."
Checkers embraced her passionately. "My darling," he protested, "I
shall have to be nearer starving to death than I 've ever been, or
expect to be, before I part with this. I shall treasure it as a
keepsake from the dearest, sweetest, prettiest, sandiest girl in the
world; the one that I love and the one that loves me; and here--here's
a scarfpin that once was my father's. They say opals are unlucky.
Well, father got shot, but I wore it the lucky day I met you; so that
does n't prove anything--wear it for my sake. Now, dear, I _must_ go.
Keep a stiff upper lip, and do n't let the old man get in his bluff on
you. Win your mother over--she'll help you out. I think she likes me;
I am sure I do her. I 'll write to you every day. Good-bye, my
precious--I 'll be back for you soon; good-bye, good-bye."
One last fond embrace, one lingering kiss, and Checkers turned and
walked resolutely away.
The next morning early he bid the Bradleys a sorrowful farewell, and
boarded the train for Little Rock. Mr. Bradley gave him letters to a
number of merchants there, but he was unable to find employment. In
fact, he only sought it in a half-hearted way; Little Rock was too
small, too near Clarksville. Chicago was his Mecca. He felt a happy
presentiment that once there circumstances would somehow solve for him
the problem of existence. But, alas, for vain hopes! Day after day,
from door to door, he sought employment without success. The answers
he received to his inquiries for work were ever the same: "Business was
dull; they were reducing rather than increasing their forces; sorry,
but if anything turned up they would let him know." At times he
received just enough encouragement to make his eventual failure the
more disheartening and cruel.
How could he write to Pert under such circumstances? At first it had
not been so hard; but now he had put it off from day to day, dreading
to tell her of his non-success, always hoping that surely to-morrow he
must have good news, until fully a week elapsed in which he had not
written. How troublesome a thing is pride--to the poor.
In the course of his wanderings he came across numbers of the old
companions of his pool-room days. Few of them had changed, but for the
worse. Most of them were penniless, hungry and threadbare, but still
the victims of the hopeless vice, and whenever fortune threw in their
way a dollar, it went into the insatiable maw of the race-tracks.
Checkers noted and was warned; and to their earnest solicitations to
"play their good things" he pointed them to their own condition--a
pertinent and unanswerable argument.
But though never so careful the time came apace when his little hoard
was all but exhausted. His treasured keepsake he still vowed nothing
should make him part with. "If I 've got to starve," he grimly
resolved, "it might as well be a week or two earlier as later--but I
'll keep Pert's gold piece."
That same day he received from Pert a letter full of encouragement, but
pleading with him, as he loved her, to write. "All in the world that I
have to look forward to now, Checkers, dear," she said, "is your
letters; and you can 't imagine how disappointed I am, and how I worry
for fear you are sick, or something, as the days go by, and no word
comes from you."
Standing by the window in his dismal boarding-house room Checkers read
the letter over and over. Meditatively he examined his
pockets--nothing! nothing but the gold piece. Something must be done.
There were a number of garments hanging on the wall, among them an
overcoat. "I can do without that," he said, with a shiver.
Half an hour later, richer by a few pieces of silver, he stood in a
telegraph-office, penning a message to Pert. "Letter received," he
wrote. "Am well, but no luck. Will write to-day. Checkers."
Beside him as he wrote, stood a man whom he recognized--one Brown, an
owner of a racing-stable. With the tail of his eye Checkers read what
he was writing. It was a telegram to some one in St. Louis, and ran:
"Stand a tap on the mare to-day. She can't lose." Checkers' heart was
in his mouth. Instantly his resolution was taken. Out into the street
he followed Brown. With the furtive care of a Hackshaw he shadowed him
in and out of hotels and saloons, until about noon they brought up at a
restaurant, where Checkers modestly seated himself at a table behind
Brown and ordered a light repast. But Brown was hungry, and Checkers
had ample time to think the thing over. "I 'm in luck at last," he
soliloquized. "Stand a tap on the mare! His friend will play it in
the foreign-book at East St. Louis and he 'll play it at the track. It
must be a 'hot one'--I wonder what the odds will be. Well, I 'll keep
this can 't-shake-me glide on my feet till I see what he plays, and
then 'get down' on it myself. I 'll put up the gold-piece, and stand
to either lose it or make a stake for myself. Somehow I 'd feel better
to have it go in one last effort to make a killin' than to spend it a
quarter at a time on sandwiches and cigarettes. To-night I 'll either
be able to write to Pert that my luck has turned, or I 'll know the
worst, and that 's some comfort. Ah, Brown 's paying his bill at last."
The summer meeting at Washington Park, with large purses and high-class
horses, was over and gone. But there were other tracks where racing
was carried on all the fall and most of the winter; gambling-hells,
pure and simple, or rather, purely and simply gambling-hells, which the
Legislature has since effectively closed.
In the betting-ring of one of these, that afternoon, Checkers threaded
his way through the crowd after Brown. The programme showed that Brown
had an entry in the last race--Remorse, an aged selling-plater.
Checkers remembered the horse as one that had shown considerable speed
as a three-year-old. He glanced at the programme again: Remorse, by
Gambler, dam Sweetheart. Was it an omen? Remorse would certainly
follow if he gambled away the keepsake which his sweetheart had given
him. But wouldn't an equally poignant regret possess him if after this
providential tip he failed to play the horse and she won? He felt that
it would.
The fourth race was on, and the last was approaching. Brown stood at
the edge of the ring, his hands in his pockets, smoking idly. The
official results of the fourth were announced, and the bookmakers
tacked up the entries for the last. Still, Brown seemed nonchalant.
Checkers anxiously watched the posting of the odds. "Remorse, four to
one," he exclaimed under his breath. Brown also glanced at the
blackboards--and lighted a fresh cigar. Every minute some one would
buttonhole him, and ask, "How about Remorse?" "O, she's got a chance,"
he would answer, with a shrug which seemed to indicate that she had no
chance.
The favorite, under a heavy play, was rapidly cut to even money, while
the odds on the others were correspondingly increased. Remorse went to
five and six to one. Brown took fifty dollars out of his pocket, and,
going up to a prominent bookmaker, played--_the favorite_. Checkers
was paralyzed. The same performance Brown repeated with another
book-maker on the other side of the ring. Gradually Remorse's price
went up to eight to one, as it became generally known that her owner
was not playing her.
The favorite's odds went to "four to five," and Checkers fingered his
gold piece nervously. One book-maker still laid even money. Here was
his chance if he wanted to play it. He started forward, and stopped.
As he hesitated, Brown sauntered out of the ring. Checkers followed
mechanically.
From a distance he saw Brown meet two horsemen and, after a brief
conversation, give them each a roll of bills. He saw these two enter
the betting-ring and, taking opposite sides, "start down the line" on
Remorse; then the scheme was revealed to him.
From stand to stand they went, betting Remorse in each book, ten and
twenty dollars at a time; not enough to cause remark, but amounting to
hundreds in the aggregate. Gradually the odds began to recede.
Checkers rushed to the other end of the ring. "Gimme Remorse!" he
exclaimed, excitedly, handing his gold-piece to a convenient blockman.
"What the 'ell's this?" asked the wondering book-maker.
"It's fifty," answered Checkers, laconically.
"Well, it's the first time I ever seen one of them babies--but it looks
like it's good. Remorse, four hundred to fifty."
"If I win, I want it back," said Checkers. "It was given to me
by--it's my lucky piece."
"All right," was the answer, and Checkers walked away with his dearly
purchased ticket deep in his pocket.
Under a steady but somewhat mysterious play, Remorse was cut to four to
one, and the favorite went up to six to five. This was gratifying to
Checkers, as indicating that Brown and his friends were confident.
He went up into the grand stand; the horses were at the post. Remorse
was acting very badly--plunging, kicking and refusing to break. "I 'll
just about get left at the post," thought Checkers. "Say, that
favorite looks good," he remarked to a young fellow next to him.
"Good," echoed the youth; "well, I should say he is good. He 's
cherry-ripe, and he 'll gallop in. If I had a thousand dollars, and
did n't know where I was goin' to eat to-night, I 'd put it _all_ on
him. There 's a lot of 'marks' around toutin' Remorse to beat
him--why, that old mare could n't beat a carpet; her last two races she
could n't get out of her own way."
This was pleasant for Checkers, but he held his counsel. The next
moment the starter dropped the flag.
Remorse, with a running start from behind, got two lengths the best of
it; and, setting a hot pace, widened up the gap between herself and the
field in a way that cheered Checkers' heart.
It was a three-quarter dash, and at the half she had a lead of at least
ten lengths, with the others strung out in a regular procession. The
favorite was trailing along in fifth place; but Checkers noticed that
he was "running easy." The jockey was leaning back in the saddle, and
the horse's mouth was pulled wide open, as he fought for his head under
a double wrap.
As they rounded into the stretch Remorse still led, but she seemed to
be tiring rapidly. The favorite swung very wide at the turn, losing
several lengths; his jockey then drew in behind three others, and
allowed himself to be hopelessly "pocketed."
Up to now Checkers' new acquaintance had been silent; but at this
exhibition of incompetent jockeyship he expressed a desire to be "good
and damned if that ride would n't frost a cigar-sign Indian."
Under whip and spur Remorse staggered on two lengths in the lead.
Within fifty feet of the wire the favorite got through, and coming with
a rush, as it seemed almost in spite of his jockey's efforts to
restrain him, he nipped Remorse on the post.
From where Checkers stood it looked as though Remorse was beaten half a
length. The crowd yelled with delight; No. 4 was posted. Checkers
looked at his programme--"Remorse, No. 4." Then it was his turn to
yell, and he rather abused his privilege. The tumult of varied emotion
within him demanded this vent, and he gave it full play. "I thought I
was out of it," he laughed delightedly to the young man beside him.
"It looked like it, did n't it, at the angle? You see, Remorse had the
rail."
But the young man was n't interested in Checkers' good luck. Just then
he had "troubles of his own." He vouchsafed one glance of sour
contempt and hurried off to try to borrow car-fare from some one.
Often Checkers had won and lost more money than was involved in his
present venture and stood it stoically; but never before had his need
been so great, and he had reason to know that necessity and luck have
at best little more than a speaking acquaintance. Exultantly,
therefore, he skipped down the stairs into the betting-ring. "You can
't keep a squirrel on the ground," he chuckled. "They 've got to stop
printing money when I ain't got some." The next minute he was in line
behind the stand where he had made his purchase, tightly grasping the
ticket which was to give him back his gold-piece and four hundred
dollars.
Four hundred dollars! It was a snug little sum. The gold-piece had
proved a mascot after all. Now, he would "get out" his overcoat and
purchase some other necessary articles. He decided to pay off his
landlady and find some more inviting quarters. But the pleasantest
thought of all was that now he could write to Pert. The delight he
found in this reflection could only have been surpassed by the joy of
seeing her in person. He did not know what he should say; but he knew
that with this load off his heart, and with the return to self-respect
which this success had brought him, he would be able to write a letter
which would encourage and cheer her--it should be his first task. He
longed to be at it, and he began to chafe at what seemed an unusual
delay in announcing "the official."
Turning, he glanced toward the judge's stand. There was a surging,
interested crowd around it. A presentiment of sudden misfortune came
over him. Almost at the same moment the air was rent by joyous yells
from hundreds of throats.
The crowd turned about, and with one accord made a rush for the
betting-ring.
In the van was Checkers' surly acquaintance--surly no longer, but
radiant with a smile which extended from ear to ear. Checkers broke
from the line, and grabbed him by the arm. "What 's up?" he exclaimed.
"What's the yelling about?"
"All bets off," was the glad rejoinder; "the favorite was 'pulled.'
The judges are onto a job in the race. It was 'fixed' for Remorse. We
all get our money back. Let go--I 'm in a hurry."
Checkers stood as though paralyzed from an actual blow. His eyes were
fixed and his lips were colorless. "By the bald-headed, knock-kneed
Jove!" he exclaimed, suddenly rousing himself with a vehement gesture;
"if my luck ain't--" But he felt it impossible to do the occasion
justice.
With a set face and a heavy heart he again lined up behind the stand.
In turn he was given his gold piece in exchange for his ticket, but the
$400 was gone, to return no more forever.
Under any sudden and crucial misfortune the subsequent action of the
average man is largely a matter of temperament. Numbers, no doubt, in
Checkers' position would have felt themselves justified in drowning
their sorrows in the flowing bowl. Others, with the obstinacy of
despair, might 'ave sought, perforce, the smiles of frowning fortune,
throwing discretion to the winds, and risking their all at any
desperate game chance threw in their way until satiated. A few might
have taken their hard luck resignedly, only thankful that it was no
worse, and hoping for better luck next time--such are they who, in the
end, succeed.
These alternatives occurred to Checkers in turn, and he effected a sort
of compromise. He needed a temporary excitement of some sort as a
counter-irritant to his nerves. He was tired and hungry, and he
decided that his first move would be to get a good supper. He did n't
care how good or what it cost--he was tired of practicing economy. But
he must have some money; it would hardly do to "spring" the fifty in a
restaurant. Ah! Uncle Isaac! Yes, he believed he could pawn the gold
piece as he would a watch, and then if luck ever came his way, he would
have a chance of redeeming it.
The staid old waiters in a fashionable cafL smiled that evening as a
youthful figure entered with an unaccustomed air, and, seating himself
at one of the tables, studied the menu earnestly. A few deft
suggestions from one of them, however, put him in the way of a very
good supper; and with a pint of Mumm's to wash it down, and a cigarette
to top off with, Checkers, for it was he, began to feel that things
might have been a bit worse after all. As he stepped into the street,
the glaring and impossible posters of a spectacular show at a
neighboring theater caught his eye and decided him. Five minutes later
he was comfortably seated in the front row of the orchestra chairs,
enjoying himself in present forgetfulness of troubles past or troubles
to come.
Now, I fear, that to properly do my part, I should here create a dream
for Checkers to have had that night, in which Pert, Remorse, a waiter,
and a comedian should all take more or less senseless parts. But being
somewhat skeptical myself, I was careful to question Checkers on this
point, especially when I afterward learned what great things the morrow
had in store for him. And, in spite of all precedent, he confessed to
the oblivion of "the insensate clod," devoid of dream or premonition,
until nine the next morning, when he awoke with a start. With the
awakening came a realizing sense of his situation in all its most
disheartening phases. His course of the night before now seemed to him
the height of idiocy. He reproached himself in no measured terms for
having neglected to write to Pert as promised in his telegram. "I
ought to have a guardian appointed to look after me," he grumbled to
himself. "Think of my blowing myself for wine and the show, with
starvation staring me in the face; and then to think of that poor
little girl expecting a letter, and not getting it."
He was interrupted by a knock at the door. "A letter for you, Mr.
Campbell," said the servant. Taking it from her he recognized the
well-known writing of his beloved. He put the letter in his pocket,
and, grabbing his hat, started down the stairs. "I 'm too late for
breakfast here," he exclaimed; "I 'll go next door to the 'beanery' and
get a roll and a cup of coffee. I 've got to play 'em close to my vest
now," he sighed. "A dime is nothing when you 've got it, but it 's
bigger than a mountain when you have n't; and it won 't be long before
I have n't at this rate."
Seated on a little round stool at the corner in the "beanery," he gave
his order, and then opened and commenced to read his letter. A
newspaper clipping dropped to the floor; he picked it up mechanically,
continuing his reading as he did so. Suddenly he began to glance from
one to the other rapidly. An instant later he jumped to his feet, and
rushed to the window for a better light. It could n't be true--it
simply could n't! Yes, yes, it must be; for here was a notice from the
public administrator in Baltimore, advertising for him as an heir of
Giles Edward Campbell, deceased, who died intestate, etc., etc., and
Judge Martin, so Pert said in the letter, had had an inquiry regarding
him, with the statement that the only knowledge the authorities had of
such a person was based upon a letter found among the effects of the
deceased, headed "Eastman Hotel, Hot Springs," beginning "My dear
Uncle," and signed "Your affectionate nephew, Edward Campbell." The
clerk at the Eastman, when applied to, had reported a memorandum left
by Checkers, that any mail which might come for him be forwarded to
Clarksville, Ark.; hence this letter to Judge Martin, and hence Pert's
knowledge of the matter, as her uncle immediately applied to her for
the necessary information.
"Uncle has written to Baltimore to-day," continued the letter, "and he
says you will hear from the authorities there without delay. The
inclosed clipping is from a Little Rock paper. Oh! Checkers, darling,
is n't it lovely?"
The slovenly waiter shuffled to the counter with his cup of muddy
coffee and a soggy roll. Checkers tossed him half a dollar, and
stalked majestically out. "I think the joint where I ate last night is
just about my size this morning," he chuckled. "Gee, but I 'd like to
yell just once. The judges can't call all bets off this time." All
during breakfast his mind was busy with a thousand different
speculations, and he finally decided that in so momentous a matter he
ought to consult a lawyer. "I 'll find one in some big office
building," he mentally resolved, "and get his advice."
+---------------------+
| MURRAY JAMESON, |
| Attorney-at-Law. |
+---------------------+
This, in modest gold letters upon an office window, was the first thing
he saw upon reaching the street.
"Everything 's coming my way to-day," he thought. "Well, I 'll go in
and see the old joker."
He was much taken aback upon entering, however, to find the "old joker"
a man of about thirty.
"Is Mr. Jameson in?" he asked.
"I am Mr. Jameson," was the reply.
"Well, I wanted to get a little advice, but--"
"Certainly; come into my private office."
Checkers was trapped. "I do n't believe," he began desperately, "that
you 'll be able to help me. It's a very important case, and--well,
I--I want some one with a lot of experience."
"As you like," said Mr. Jameson, who, by the way, was none other than
my old friend Murray, "but I 've been practicing law for more than five
years."
"Well, that's enough practice to learn any game;" and, seating himself,
Checkers told him the facts as succinctly as possible from the
beginning.
Of his uncle's circumstances he really knew nothing; but he remembered
hearing his mother speak of him, just before her death, as being "well
off," and "Uncle Giles was n't the kind, once he had a dollar, ever to
let it get away."
If Checkers' chronology was correct, it was clear that he was the only
heir, and "whether his Uncle left much or little, it was that much
better than nothing at all." But Murray somewhat damped his enthusiasm
by the statement that there might be bills and claims of various sorts
against the estate, which, in the end, would show it to be insolvent.
However, he agreed to take the matter up at once, and be content to
receive his fee when the final settlement was made.
Checkers spent the rest of the day in writing the long-delayed letter
to Pert, telegraphing her in the mean time that he had received her
letter, and expressing his thanks.
A few days brought to light these facts concerning Giles Edward
Campbell, deceased: He had drawn a large pension undeservedly for
years, and by pinching and saving had amassed a fortune. Under
Cleveland in '84 his pension was annulled, and about the same time he
was nearly bankrupted in a greedy and foolish speculation. Then fear
of absolute want must have seized him, for, converting the little that
was left into gold, he hoarded it in miserly fashion; loaning it at
usurious rates, and hiding it when not in use in chests and crannies in
his den. At the time of his death, which was due more to lack of
nourishment than to anything else, there was found upon his person and
in nooks and corners of his room, thirty thousand dollars in gold and
government bonds, all of which in due time became the property of
Checkers.