BILL BRADLEY, GAMBLER AND GENTLEMAN
Telegraphers are, as a rule, a very nomadic class, wandering hither and
thither like a chip buffeted about on the ocean. Their pathway is not
always one of roses, and many times their feet are torn by the jagged
rocks of adversity. I was no different from any of the rest, neither
better nor worse, and many a night I have slept with only the deep blue
sky for a covering, and it may be added--sotto voce--it is not a very
warm blanket on a cold night. 'Tis said, an operator of the first class
can always procure work, but there are times when even the best of them
are on their uppers. For instance, when winter's chill blasts sweep
across the hills and dales of the north, like swarms of swallows,
operators flit southwards to warmer climes, and for this reason the
supply is often greater than the demand.
I was a "flitter" of the first water, and after I had been in Fort Worth
for a very short while I became possessed of a desire to see something
of the far famed border towns along the Rio Grande frontier. So I went
south to a town called Hallville, and found it a typical tough frontier
town. I landed there all right enough and then proceeded to gently
strand. Work was not to be had, money I had none, and my predicament can
be imagined. Many of you have doubtless been on the frontier and know
what these places are. There was the usual number of gambling dens,
dance halls and saloons, and of course they had their variety theatre.
Ever go into one of the latter places? The first thing that greets your
eye is a big black and white sign "Buy a drink and see the show."
Inside, at one end, is the long wooden bar, presided over by some thug
of the highest order, with a big diamond stuck in the centre of a broad
expanse of white shirt front. At the other end is the so-called stage,
while scattered about indiscriminately are the tables and chairs. The
air is filled--yea, reeking--with the fumes of bad whiskey, stale beer,
and the odor of foul smelling cheap tobacco smoke, and through all this
haze the would-be "show," goes on, and the applause is manifested by
whistles, cat calls, the pounding of feet on the floor and glasses on
the tables. Occasionally some artist (?) will appear who does not seem
to strike the popular fancy and will be greeted by a beer glass or
empty bottle being fired at his or her head.
Now, at the time of which I speak, my prospects were very slim, and as
nature had endowed me with a fair singing voice, I had just about made
up my mind to go to the Palace Variety Theatre and ask for a position as
a vocalist. I could, at least, sing as well as some of the theatrical
bygones that graced the place. The price of admission in one of these
places is simply the price of a drink. I felt in my pocket and found
that I had one solitary lonely dime, and swinging aside the green baize
door, I entered.
"Gimme a beer," I said laying down my dime. A small glass, four-fifths
froth and one-fifth beer, was skated at me by the bartender from the
other end of the counter, and my dime was raked into the till.
Then I stood around like a bump on a log, trying to screw my courage up
to ask the blear eyed, red-nosed Apollo for a job. Some hack voiced old
chromo was trying to warble "Do they miss me at home," and mentally I
thought "if he had ever sung like that when he was at home they were
probably glad he had left." The scene was sickening and disgusting to
me, but empty stomachs stand not on ceremony, so I turned around and
was just about to accost the proprietor, when Biff! I felt a stinging
whack between my shoulders. Quickly I faced about, all the risibility of
my red headed nature coming to the surface, and there I saw a big
handsome chap standing in front of me. Six feet tall, broad-shouldered,
straight, lithe limbs, denoting herculean strength, a massive head
poised on a well shaped neck, two cold blue eyes, and a face covered by
a bushy brown beard; dressed in well fitting clothes, trousers tucked in
the tops of shiny black boots, long Prince Albert coat and a broad
sombrero set rakishly on one side of his head. Such was the man who hit
me in the back.
"Hello, youngster, what's your name?"
Rubbing my lame shoulder, I said, "Well it might be Jones and it might
be Smith, but it ain't, and I don't know what affair it is of yours, any
way."
"Oh! come now, boy, don't get huffy. You've got an honest face and
appear to be in trouble. What is it? Out with it. You're evidently a
tenderfoot and this hell-hole of vice isn't a place for a boy of your
years. What's your name? Come over here at this table and sit down and
tell me."
Something in his bluff hearty manner gave me hope and after sitting
down, I said.
"My name is Martin Bates. I'm a telegraph operator by profession and
blew into this town this morning on my uppers. I can't get work and I
haven't a red cent to my name. It is necessary for me to live, and as I
can sing a little bit, I came in here to see if I could get a job
warbling. I won't beg or steal, and there is no one here I can borrow
from. There's my story. Not a very pleasant one is it?"
"There may have been worse. How long since you've had anything to eat."
"Nine o'clock this morning," I grimly replied.
"Good Lord, that's twelve hours ago. Come on with me out of here and
I'll fix you up."
Meekly I followed my new found friend. I was sick at heart, weary and
worn out in body and I didn't care a rap whether school kept or not;
anything would be better than my present situation. He took me about
three blocks up the main street and we went into a suite of beautifully
furnished rooms. He rang a bell, a darkey came in, and it wasn't long
before I had a lunch in front of me fit for the gods, and I may add it
didn't take me many minutes to get outside of it. My friend watched me
narrowly while I was eating, and when I had finished he said,
"Now youngster, you're all tired out. You go to bed in the next room and
get a good night's sleep. In the morning we'll see what we can do for
you, but one thing is certain, you're not going into that vile hole of a
Palace Theatre again. Somewhere in this world you have a father and
mother who are praying for you this night. Don't make a slip in your
pathway in life and break their hearts. Everything is safe and quiet
here and no one will disturb you until I come in in the morning."
There was a peculiar earnestness in his voice as he spoke that was very
convincing, and as he rose to go out, I meekly said,
"What's your name, mister?"
"Bill Bradley," he answered with a queer smile. "Now don't you ask any
more questions to-night," and with that he was gone.
I went to bed almost sick from my exposure and lack of food, and just as
the old sand man of childhood's happy days began to sprinkle his grains
in my eyes, I heard, way off in the distance, a peculiar click and a
drawling voice calling off some numbers. "Four." "Sixteen."
"Thirty-three." "Seventy-eight." "Ten." "Twenty-six," and then, a great
shout arose and some one called out "KENO." Ah! I was near a gambling
house, but I was too tired to care, nature asserted herself, and I
gently crossed the river into the land of Nod.
The next morning I was really sick with a high fever, and when Bill came
in I was well nigh loony.
"Hello," he said, "this won't do. Tom, I say, you Tom, go and tell
Doctor Bailey I want him here quick. D--n quick. Do you hear?" and black
Tom answered, "Yas, suh."
To be brief, I was three weeks on my back, and bluff old Bill Bradley
nursed me like a loving mother would a sick child. Day and night he hung
over me, never a thing did I need but what he procured for me, and one
day after the fever had left me and I was sitting up by an open window,
I said,
"Mr. Bradley, what do you do for a living?"
"Boy," he replied with a flushed face, "I am sorry you asked that
question, but sooner or later you would have heard it and I'd a great
deal rather tell you about it myself. I'm a gambler and these three
rooms adjoin my place which is called the "Three Nines," and then he
told me the story of his life. He was a son of a fine Connecticut
family, a graduate of Harvard, and in his day had been a very able young
lawyer with brilliant prospects, but one night, he went out with a crowd
of roystering chaps, the lie was passed, and--it was the old story,--he
came to Texas for a refuge. The great civil war was just over, the
country in a chaotic state, and there he had remained ever since. Thrown
with wild, uncouth men, and being reckless in the extreme, he opened a
gambling house.
"Why did you take this great interest in me?" I asked.
"Look here, young chap, you are altogether too inquisitive. I've got an
old father and mother way up in Ball Brooke, Connecticut, whose hearts
have been broken by my actions, and when I saw you in that hellish den
of vice you looked so out of place that I determined to save you. It was
impulse, my boy, and then again, it may have been the remembrance of the
one, at whose knee I used to lisp, 'Now I lay me down to sleep.'"
My recovery was very rapid from that time on, and when I was able to
work I secured a position in the commercial office in Hallville. One
evening after being paid I strolled into the "Three Nines;" Bill was
dealing faro, and I thought I might in a measure, show my gratitude
towards him by risking a coin. There was a big crowd standing around
the table, but I edged my way in and placed a dollar on the queen to
win. Luck was with me and I won. Once, twice, thrice, did the cards come
my way, and my stack of whites and reds was growing. This didn't seem to
me much like gratitude to win a man's money, and I wished I hadn't
started. Presently Bill looked up, and spying me, pointed to my stack of
chips, and said, "Whose stack is that?" "Mine," I replied, and with one
fell swoop he dashed the chips into the rack, and taking a ten-dollar
bill from the drawer, he turned to his side partner and said, "Jim, take
the deal," and then he got up, took me by the arm, saying, "You come
with me."
Feeling like a sneak I followed him, and when we had reached his
sitting-room, he sat down and said,
"Kid, how much were you in on that deal?"
"Just one dollar," I replied.
Then he looked at me, his eyes shone like coals of fire, and he said,
"Look here boy, here's ten dollars. If you are ever hard up and want
money come to me, and I'll give it to you willingly, but don't you ever
let me see or hear of you staking a cent on a card again. I'm running a
gambling house, and as gambling houses go, it's an honest one, but I'm
not out plucking lambs like you. Your intentions were probably good but
don't you ever do it again. If you really want to show your gratitude
for what I have done for you, promise me honestly that you will never
gamble."
I felt very much humiliated, but took his words of advice, promised, and
have never flipped a coin on a card since that night.
Bill was a married man, and in addition to his suite of rooms spoken of,
he had a very nice residence on Capitol Hill. His suite was a side
issue, to be used when the games were running high. I had never met Mrs.
Bradley, but during my illness I had evidence every day of her goodness
in the shape of many delicacies that found their way to my bedside. I
had asked Bill time and again to take me out to meet his wife, but he
always put me off on one pretext or another.
When I started to work, I had secured a room at the house of a Mrs.
Slade. She had three daughters and one Sunday afternoon we were all out
walking together, when one of them pointed to a very fine residence and
said, "That's the residence of Bill Bradley, the big gambler."
Just then Bill and his wife came driving by behind a spanking team of
bays. Quick as a flash my hat came off, and I bowed low. Bill saw it
and very cavalierly returned my salute. The elder Miss Slade turned on
me like a tigress, and said,
"Mr. Bates, do you know who that man is? Do you know what he is?"
"Yes, I know him very well," I replied.
"Then what do you mean by insulting us by speaking to such a man? I did
not know that you associated with men of his ilk."
In a plain unvarnished way I told them of Bill Bradley's kindness to me,
but it was no go, and as I would not renounce my liking for the man who
had been my benefactor, my room in their house became preferable to my
society and I left.
The next evening I saw Bill in his rooms, and he said,
"Martin, yesterday, when Mrs. Bradley and I drove by you and the Slade
girls, you spoke to me and lifted your hat to Mrs. Bradley. I could do
naught but return the salute. Now my boy, there's no use of my mincing
words with you; I befriended you, probably saved you from ruin, but
young as you are, you know full well that our paths do not lie parallel
with each other. I am a gambler, and although Mrs. Bradley is as good a
woman as ever lived, (and I'd kill the first man that said she wasn't)
we are not recognized by society; no, not even by the riff raff that
live in Hallville. You have your way to carve in the world, don't ruin
it right at the outset by letting people know you are friendly with
gamblers. No matter how good your motives may be, this scoffing world
will always misconstrue them and censure you."
This made me hot and I told him so. No matter if he was a gambler, he
was more of a gentleman than nine-tenths of the men of society, yes,
men, who would come and gamble half the night away in his place, and
then go forth the next day and pose as models of propriety.
The upshot of the whole business was that I left Hallville soon after
this and went to San Antonio to take day report, and one day I picked up
a paper, and read an account of how Bill Bradley had been assassinated
by a cowardly cur who had a grudge against him. He was stabbed in the
back, and thus ended the career of Bill Bradley, gambler and gentleman.