Sam Houstin and Harry Monell were in business with me working the
Missouri Pacific, and we were very successful, making a great deal
of money. During the summer we played the bank, and in the winter
operated on the river and Southern roads. Immediately after the
big fire we resolved to go to Chicago, but, at the last minute,
Houstin was unable to go; but I told him he should be in with the
play, and share the profits as if he was along.
Monell and I started, and made a few hundred dollars, and when
Houstin joined us he received his share of the spoils. We were
all stopping at the Tremont House, on Lake Street. We made a little
money, and one Sunday morning I arose early, and resolved to go
out on the road about twenty miles. While waiting for breakfast
I made the acquaintance of a gentleman from Texas, who had just
sold some cattle that he had brought with him. We had a cocktail
together, and I sent the porter to awaken my partners, whom I duly
introduced to the stranger, letting them know that he had money,
and to keep a sharp lookout on him until Monday morning. When I
returned at night I found that my partners had beat the Texan, and
he had Houstin locked up in jail. I carried him down a good supper
from a restaurant, and then hunted up the Texan, who told me that
he had started in betting, and at first won and then lost $7,600,
and that his only object in arresting Houstin was to scare him so
as to get his money back. The other man he could not find. He
said he had gambled when in Texas, but these fellows were too smart
for him, and that he could not afford to lose that money.
When the case was called for trial, the Judge dismissed it on the
ground that they were all gamblers. Nothing was said about the
settlement of the game for a couple of days, when one morning they
both arose, paid their bills, and skipped, and I never received a
cent of that money. I have since learned that Monell is doing time
at Sing Sing, along with "Paper Collar Joe," while Houstin is an
old man trying to lead a square life, I understand, down in Florida.
The late Sherman Thurston once said to me, "George, those fellows
are rotten apples;" but I did not heed his advice, and let them
alone.