NIGGER LOO.
There are gamblers and gamblers, but in the expressed opinion of his
Worship they are all thieves. Some affect good manners, society, and
clothes, wear genuine diamonds, and claim for themselves the credit of
never taking part in a “crooked” transaction, either over the table or
away from it. They do not even openly associate with their “cappers,” but
leave these sneaks to do the dirty work, paying them a small percentage
of the winnings therefor. They follow the “circuit,” attend all the
race meetings on both sides of the line, and are looked upon with favor
by sporting men. They are lavish in their expenditure and generous to a
fault with each other on the street. But alas for their good impulses!
Every generous thought fades away more completely than a misty dream
when they face each other at the poker table, and when they succeed in
roping in a wealthy “sucker,” they become night-hawks indeed, and swoop
down on their unsuspecting prey with a force and ferocity that cannot be
resisted. All thieves? Aye, cruel, heartless thieves.
There are other gamblers who affect—nothing. Too strongly in love
with whisky to have much money, they simply drift on and on until
the drunkard’s grave or a government prison affords them a harbor of
refuge. And yet, even these poor whisky-soaked half-crazed wretches,
who are not possessed of spirit enough to look an honest man in the
face, are thieves. They cannot play poker in the “gentleman” gambler’s
den, so they repair to the house of a colored man and by their superior
skill in manipulating the cards fleece their darker-skinned, but not
blacker-hearted brethren, out of the few pieces of silver they succeed in
earning during the day.
Yet it is hardly a step from the gambler’s palace to the drunken crook’s
den, and when the visitor passes in his tour of inspection from one to
the other no feeling of surprise comes over him. The same kind of people
are in attendance, are playing poker, and if they have not pat hands
lying on their laps it is because they keep them concealed in their vests
or down the back of their necks. You know even a gambler is allowed to
smooth his shirt-front or adjust his collar when he wishes. The same kind
of people, with faces a little more bloated and blotched, perhaps, and
the lines showing more clearly the unmistakable
SIGNS OF DISSIPATION
and debauchery, but the very same kind of people. There is no place in
the world better adapted for the study of human nature than in the poker
room. So the reader may accompany a detective and the writer to one of
the most notorious “nigger dives” in the city. It is a queer-looking
attic about the size of a large cupboard, and is illuminated in daylight
by a four-pane window that commands a picturesque view of outhouses and
filthy yards. It is one of those noisome chambers upon the very threshold
of which a sensitive person will probably recoil in natural disgust. The
paper on the wall, or what remains of it, is discolored and greasy, and
the table, once a light oak, has been blackened by the action of time and
dirt, the unbrushed sleeves of the gamesters, tobacco smoke, and beer
stains. There were five people, two white men and three “coons,” seated
at the table when the visitors managed to overcome their first feeling
of disgust, and enter the room. Phew! It was worse than executing a
search-warrant in a York street junk-shop. They were playing poker, and
paid no attention to the detective, when they found he was not followed
by a posse of police.
“It’s all right, Slick; only showing a friend of mine around a bit.”
“Good enough, boss; thought as you’se gwine to pull de ranch. Make y’seff
to hum.”
That being impossible in so small and filthy a hole, the visitors
squeezed themselves as near to the open window as possible, and watched
the game. It was evident at a glance that the white men were proficients
in the art of cheating, and that the “coons” knew they were exercising
their arts, but
THE FASCINATION THAT LED THEM
to the table kept them still in their seats. The deals go on, and as
piece after piece of silver crosses from the stakes of the blacks to
the whites, the silence becomes still more ominous, and the glitter of
three pairs of rolling black eyes becomes more dangerous. The first
coon deals the cards and all pass out, the next taking up the pack with
a like result. Coon No. 3 clumsily shuffles the pasteboards, but does
his “stacking” so poorly that every one gets on to his racket, to use a
gambler’s phrase, and passes out. Now comes a jack-pot, where every one
antes till the game is opened. The pack circulates three times, and no
one will open it, although the onlookers see a pair of aces in one hand
which disappear in a most mysterious manner. The expression on the faces
of the whites differs widely. One is as cool as if he were engaged in a
game of euchre for the drinks; the lips of the other twitch nervously,
his face is as pale as the whisky blotches will allow it to be, and his
eyes have a peculiar shifting motion, as if he apprehended danger. But
look at the coons! Their wooly heads are pushed forward till their necks
look as long as a plumber’s bill, their protruding eyes are as stationary
as a fascinated gamester at a faro table, and their great flat nostrils
are dilated so as to almost engulph their mobile lips, from which no
sounds are issued. The pot is a large one for such a small game, and
when the imperturbable white leans over and calmly observes, “I’ll open
it for a dollar,” there is a dead silence, followed by a sudden move on
the part of the largest coon, who leaps to his feet, and with flaming
eyes, yells,
“No you don’t, honey; you squidged dose keerds.”
Every man makes a grab at the pile in the center of the table, which is
overturned with the lamp, and in the
EGYPTIAN DARKNESS
that ensues a general fight occurs. The writer cannot say who got hurt;
he got his body out of danger by changing venue to the roof. When he
returned the crowd were equally dividing the money and the imperturbable
white was disgorging aces and kings from behind his neck and out of his
vest and sleeves.
* * * * *
If it were possible to confine gambling at cards to the professional
gamblers, there would be no cause for complaint, but as this is an
impossibility, the Police Commissioners should take steps to protect
young men who are first innocent victims and afterwards by their
experience become villainous cheats. It is a well-known fact that poker
is largely played in private houses and at some of the clubs, but with
these cases the police are powerless to deal, and it is only public
sentiment that will break them up. In some of the hotels, too, rooms are
set apart for card-playing, but as the Magistrate has stated that, on a
hotelkeeper being convicted of such an offence, he will annul the liquor
license, it is safe to conclude that the business is not carried on on
a very large scale. The Police Commissioners have it in their power to
keep many young men from being decoyed headlong to destruction. Will
they exert that power by arresting these “cappers” and unscrupulous
night-hawks as vagrants, if they cannot catch them gambling, and give
them a term of imprisonment without a fine after the first conviction?
In conclusion it may be remarked that gambling is not the only offence
of the gambler against public morals. Many of them shun drink, and only
indulge in occasional excesses in this direction, but all of them,
without exception, are frequenters of immoral houses. When a gambler
makes a haul his first impulse is to repair to the bagnio, where he finds
creatures who will welcome him when he is flush. The debasing nature of
gaming is shown in the one fact that the money won is largely spent in
the indulgence of guilty pleasures.