“Six long, long years it’s been going on now! I ask you how much you’ve
got, and you say, ‘nine dollars,’ or ‘seven dollars,’ or ‘four dollars,’
and once it was sixty-five cents! Sixty-five cents; that’s what we had
to live on! Sixty-five _cents_!”
“Oh, hush!” he said wearily.
“Hadn’t you better hush a little yourself?” she retorted. “You come home
with twelve dollars in your pocket and tell your wife to hush! That’s
nice? Why can’t you do what decent men do?”
“What’s that?”
“Why, give their wives something to live for. What do you give me, I’d
like to know! Look at the clothes I wear, please!”
“Well, it’s your own fault,” he muttered.
“What did you say! Did you say it’s my fault I wear clothes any women I
know wouldn’t be _seen_ in?”
“Yes, I did. If you hadn’t made me get you that platinum ring----”
“What!” she cried, and flourished her hand at him across the table.
“Look at it! It’s platinum, yes; but look at the stone in it, about the
size of a pinhead, so’s I’m ashamed to wear it when any of my friends
see me! A hundred and sixteen dollars is what this magnificent ring cost
you, and how long did I have to beg before I got even that little out of
you? And it’s the best thing I own and the only thing I ever did get out
of you!”
“Oh, Lordy!” he moaned.
“I wish you’d seen Charlie Loomis looking at this ring to-day,” she
said, with a desolate laugh. “He happened to notice it, and I saw him
keep glancing at it, and I wish you’d seen Charlie Loomis’s expression!”
Collinson’s own expression became noticeable upon her introduction of
this name; he stared at her gravely until he completed the mastication
of one of the indigestibles she had set before him; then he put down his
fork and said:
“So you saw Charlie Loomis again to-day. Where?”
“Oh, my!” she sighed. “Have we got to go over all that again?”
“Over all what?”
“Over all the fuss you made the last time I mentioned Charlie’s name. I
thought we settled it you were going to be a little more sensible about
him.”
“Yes,” Collinson returned. “_I_ was going to be more sensible about him,
because _you_ were going to be more sensible about him. Wasn’t that the
agreement?”
She gave him a hard glance, tossed her head so that the curls of her
bobbed hair fluttered prettily, and with satiric mimicry repeated his
question. “‘Agreement’! Wasn’t that the agreement! Oh, my, but you do
make me tired, talking about ‘agreements’! As if it was a crime my going
to a vaudeville matinée with a man kind enough to notice that my husband
never takes me anywhere!”
“Did you go to a vaudeville with him to-day?”
“No, I didn’t!” she said. “I was talking about the time when you made
such a fuss. I didn’t go anywhere with him to-day.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Collinson said. “I wouldn’t have stood for it.”
“Oh, you wouldn’t?” she cried, and added a shrill laugh as further
comment. “You ‘wouldn’t have stood for it’!”
“Never mind,” he returned doggedly. “We went over all that the last
time, and you understand me: I’ll have no more foolishness about Charlie
Loomis.”
“How nice of you! He’s a friend of yours; you go with him yourself; but
your wife mustn’t even look at him, just because he happens to be the
one man that amuses her a little. That’s fine!”
“Never mind,” Collinson said again. “You say you saw him to-day. I want
to know where.”
“Suppose I don’t choose to tell you.”
“You’d better tell me, I think.”
“Do you? I’ve got to answer for every minute of my day, have I?”
“I want to know where you saw Charlie Loomis.”
She tossed her curls again, and laughed. “Isn’t it funny!” she said.
“Just because I like a man, he’s the one person I can’t have anything to
do with! Just because he’s kind and jolly and amusing, and I like his
jokes and his thoughtfulness toward a woman when he’s with her, I’m not
to be allowed to see him at all! But my _husband_--oh, that’s entirely
different! _He_ can go out with Charlie whenever he likes and have a
good time, while I stay home and wash the dishes! Oh, it’s a lovely
life!”
“Where did you see him to-day?”
Instead of answering his question, she looked at him plaintively and
allowed tears to shine along her lower eyelids. “Why do you treat me
like this?” she asked in a feeble voice. “Why can’t I have a man friend
if I want to? I do like Charlie Loomis. I do like him----”
“Yes! That’s what I noticed!”
“Well, but what’s the good of always insulting me about him? He has time
on his hands of afternoons, and so have I. Our janitor’s wife is crazy
about the baby and just adores to have me leave her in their flat--the
longer the better. Why shouldn’t I go to a matinée or a picture show
sometimes with Charlie? Why should I just have to sit around instead of
going out and having a nice time, when he wants me to?”
“I want to know where you saw him to-day!”
Mrs. Collinson jumped up. “You make me sick!” she said, and began to
clear away the dishes.
“I want to know where----”
“Oh, hush up!” she cried. “He came here to leave a note for you.”
“Oh,” said her husband. “I beg your pardon. That’s different.”
“How sweet of you!”
“Where’s the note, please?”
She took it from her pocket and tossed it to him. “So long as it’s a
note for _you_ it’s all right, of course,” she said. “I wonder what
you’d do if he’d written one to me!”
“Never mind,” said Collinson, and read the note.
DEAR COLLIE: Dave and Smithie and Old Bill and Sammy Hoag and maybe
Steinie and Sol are coming over to the shack about eight-thirty.
Home brew and the old pastime. _You_ know! Don’t fail.
CHARLIE.
“You’ve read this of course,” Collinson said. “The envelope wasn’t
sealed.”
“I have not,” his wife returned, covering the prevarication with a cold
dignity. “I’m not in the habit of reading other people’s correspondence,
thank you! I suppose you think I do so because you’d never hesitate to
read any note _I_ got; but I don’t do everything you do, you see!”
“Well, you can read it now,” he said, and gave her the note.
Her eyes swept the writing briefly, and she made a sound of wonderment,
as if amazed to find herself so true a prophet. “And the words weren’t
more than out of my mouth! _You_ can go and have a grand party right in
his flat, while your wife stays home and gets the baby to bed and washes
the dishes!”
“I’m not going.”
“Oh, no!” she said mockingly. “I suppose not! I see you missing one of
Charlie’s stag parties!”
“I’ll miss this one.”
But it was not to Mrs. Collinson’s purpose that he should miss the
party; she wished him to be as intimate as possible with the debonair
Charlie Loomis; and so, after carrying some dishes into the kitchenette
in meditative silence, she reappeared with a changed manner. She went to
her husband, gave him a shy little pat on the shoulder and laughed
good-naturedly. “Of course you’ll go,” she said. “I do think you’re
silly about my never going out with him when it would give me a little
innocent pleasure and when you’re not home to take me, yourself; but I
wasn’t really in such terrible earnest, all I said. You work hard the
whole time, honey, and the only pleasure you ever do have, it’s when you
get a chance to go to one of these little penny-ante stag parties. You
haven’t been to one for ever so long, and you never stay after twelve;
it’s really all right with me. I want you to go.”
“Oh, no,” said Collinson. “It’s only penny-ante, but I couldn’t afford
to lose anything at all.”
“If you did lose, it’d only be a few cents,” she said. “What’s the
difference, if it gives you a little fun? You’ll work all the better if
you go out and enjoy yourself once in a while.”
“Well, if you really look at it that way, I’ll go.”
“That’s right, dear,” she said, smiling. “Better put on a fresh collar
and your other suit, hadn’t you?”
“I suppose so,” he assented, and began to make the changes she
suggested.
When he had completed his toilet, it was time for him to go. She came
in from the kitchenette, kissed him, and then looked up into his eyes,
letting him see a fond and brightly amiable expression.
“There, honey,” she said. “Run along and have a nice time. Then maybe
you’ll be a little more sensible about some of _my_ little pleasures.”
He held the one hundred dollar bill folded in his hand, meaning to leave
it with her, but as she spoke a sudden recurrence of suspicion made him
forget his purpose. “Look here,” he said. “I’m not making any bargain
with you. You talk as if you thought I was going to let you run around
to vaudevilles with Charlie because you let me go to this party. Is that
your idea?”
It was, indeed, precisely Mrs. Collinson’s idea, and she was instantly
angered enough to admit it in her retort. “Oh, aren’t you _mean_!” she
cried. “I might know better than to look for any fairness in a man like
you!”
“See here----”
“Oh, hush up!” she said. “Shame on you! Go on to your party!” With that
she put both hands upon his breast, and pushed him toward the door.
“I won’t go. I’ll stay here.”
“You will, too, go!” she cried, shrewishly. “_I_ don’t want to look at
you around here all evening. It’d make me sick to look at a man without
an ounce of fairness in his whole mean little body!”
“All right,” said Collinson, violently, “I _will_ go!”
“Yes! Get out of my sight!”
And he did, taking the one hundred dollar bill with him, to the
penny-ante poker party.
The gay Mr. Charlie Loomis called his apartment “the shack” in jocular
depreciation of its beauty and luxury, but he regarded it as a perfect
thing, and in one way it was: for it was perfectly in the family
likeness of a thousand such “shacks.” It had a ceiling with false beams,
walls of green burlap, spotted with coloured “coaching prints,” brown
shelves supporting pewter plates and mugs, “mission” chairs, a leather
couch with violet cushions, silver-framed photographs of lady friends
and officer friends, a drop light of pink-shot imitation alabaster, a
papier-mâché skull tobacco jar among moving-picture magazines on the
round card table; and, of course, the final Charlie Loomis touch--a
Japanese manservant.
The master of all this was one of those neat, stoutish young men with
fat, round heads, sleek, fair hair, immaculate, pale complexions, and
infirm little pink mouths--in fact, he was of the type that may suggest
to the student of resemblances a fastidious and excessively clean white
pig with transparent ears. Nevertheless, Charlie Loomis was of a
free-handed habit in some matters, being particularly indulgent to
pretty women and their children. He spoke of the latter as “the
kiddies,” of course, and liked to call their mothers “kiddo,” or
“girlie.” One of his greatest pleasures was to tell a woman that she was
“the dearest, bravest little girlie in the world.” Naturally he was a
welcome guest in many households, and would often bring a really
magnificent toy to the child of some friend whose wife he was courting.
Moreover, at thirty-three, he had already done well enough in business
to take things easily, and he liked to give these little card parties,
not for gain, but for pastime. He was cautious and disliked high stakes
in a game of chance.
“I don’t consider it hospitality to have any man go out o’ my shack
sore,” he was wont to say. “Myself, I’m a bachelor and got no
obligations; I’ll shoot any man that can afford it for anything he wants
to. Trouble is, you never can tell when a man _can’t_ afford it or what
harm his losin’ might mean to the little girlie at home and the kiddies.
No, boys, penny-ante and ten-cent limit is the highest we go in this ole
shack. Penny-ante and a few steins of the ole home-brew that hasn’t got
a divorce in a barrel of it!”
Penny-ante and the ole home-brew had been in festal operation for half
an hour when the morose Collinson arrived this evening. Mr. Loomis and
his guests sat about the round table under the alabaster drop light;
their coats were off; cigars were worn at the deliberative poker angle;
colourful chips and cards glistened on the cloth; one of the players
wore a green shade over his eyes; and all in all, here was a little
poker party for a lithograph.
“Ole Collie, b’gosh!” Mr. Loomis shouted, humorously. “Here’s your
vacant cheer; stack all stuck out for you ’n’ ever’thin’! Set daown,
neighbour, an’ Smithie’ll deal you in, next hand. What made you so late?
Helpin’ the little girlie at home get the kiddy to bed? That’s a great
kiddy of yours, Collie.”
Collinson took the chair that had been left for him, counted his chips
and then as the playing of a “hand” still preoccupied three of the
company, he picked up a silver dollar that lay upon the table near him.
“What’s this?” he asked. “A side bet? Or did somebody just leave it here
for me?”
“Yes; for you to look at,” Mr. Loomis explained. “It’s Smithie’s.”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“Nothin’. Smithie was just showin’ it to us. Look at it.”
Collinson turned the coin over and saw a tiny inscription that had been
lined into the silver with a point of steel. “Luck,” he read--“Luck
hurry back to me!” Then he spoke to the owner of this marked dollar. “I
suppose you put that on there, Smithie, to help make sure of getting our
money to-night.”
But Smithie shook his head, which was a large, gaunt head, as it
happened--a head fronted with a sallow face shaped much like a coffin,
but inconsistently genial in expression. “No,” he said. “It just came in
over my counter this afternoon, and I noticed it when I was checkin’ up
the day’s cash. Funny, ain’t it: ‘Luck hurry back to me!’”
“Who do you suppose marked that on it?” Collinson said thoughtfully.
“Golly!” his host exclaimed. “It won’t do you much good to wonder about
that!”
Collinson frowned, continuing to stare at the marked dollar. “I guess
not, but really I should like to know.”
“I would, too,” Smithie said. “I been thinkin’ about it. Might ’a’ been
somebody in Seattle or somebody in Ipswich, Mass., or New Orleans or St.
Paul. How you goin’ to tell? It’s funny how some people like to believe
luck depends on some little thing like that.”
“Yes, it is,” Collinson assented, still brooding over the coin.
The philosophic Smithie extended his arm across the table collecting the
cards to deal them, for the “hand” was finished. “Yes, sir, it’s funny,”
he repeated. “Nobody knows exactly what luck is, but the way I guess it
out, it lays in a man’s _believin’_ he’s in luck, and some little object
like this makes him kind of concentrate his mind on thinkin’ he’s goin’
to be lucky, because of course you often _know_ you’re goin’ to win, and
then you do win. You don’t win when you _want_ to win, or when you need
to; you win when you believe you’ll win. I don’t know who it was that
said, ‘Money’s the root of all evil’; but I guess he didn’t have _too_
much sense! I suppose if some man killed some other man for a dollar,
the poor fish that said that would let the man out and send the dollar
to the chair----”
But here this garrulous and discursive guest was interrupted by
immoderate protests from several of his colleagues. “Cut it out!” “My
Lord!” “_Do_ something!” “Smith_ie_! Are you ever goin’ to _deal_?”
“I’m goin’ to shuffle first,” he responded, suiting the action to the
word, though with deliberation, and at the same time continuing his
discourse. “It’s a mighty interesting thing, a piece o’ money. You take
this dollar, now: Who’s it belonged to? Where’s it been? What different
kind o’ funny things has it been spent for sometimes? What funny kind of
secrets do you suppose it could ’a’ heard if it had ears? Good people
have had it and bad people have had it: why, a dollar could tell more
about the human race--why, it could tell _all_ about it!”
“I guess it couldn’t tell all about the way you’re dealin’ those cards,”
said the man with the green shade. “You’re mixin’ things all up.”
“I’ll straighten ’em all out then,” said Smithie cheerfully. “They say,
‘Money talks.’ Golly! If it _could_ talk, what couldn’t it tell?
_No_body’d be safe. _I_ got this dollar now, but who’s it goin’ to
belong to next, and what’ll _he_ do with it? And then after _that_! Why,
for years and years and years, it’ll go on from one pocket to another,
in a millionaire’s house one day, in some burglar’s flat the next,
maybe, and in one person’s hand money’ll do good, likely, and in
another’s it’ll do harm. We all _want_ money; but some say it’s a bad
thing, like that dummy I was talkin’ about. Lordy! Goodness or badness,
I’ll take all anybody----”
He was interrupted again, and with increased vehemence. Collinson, who
sat next to him, complied with the demand to “ante up,” then placed the
dollar near his little cylinder of chips, and looked at his cards. They
proved unencouraging, and he turned to his neighbour. “I’d sort of like
to have that marked dollar, Smithie,” he said. “I’ll give you a paper
dollar, Smithie,” he said. “I’ll give you a paper dollar and a nickel
for it.”
But Smithie laughed, shook his head and slid the coin over toward his
own chips. “No, sir. I’m goin’ to keep it--awhile, anyway.”
“So you do think it’ll bring you luck, after all!”
“No. But I’ll hold on to it for this evening, anyhow.”
“Not if we clean you out, you won’t,” said Charlie Loomis. “You know the
rules o’ the old shack: only cash goes in _this_ game; no I. O. U. stuff
ever went here or ever will. Tell you what I’ll do, though, before you
lose it: I’ll give you a dollar and a quarter for your ole silver
dollar, Smithie.”
“Oh, you want it, too, do you? I guess I can spot what sort of luck
_you_ want it for, Charlie.”
“Well, Mr. Bones, what sort of luck do I want it for?”
“_You_ win, Smithie,” one of the other players said. “We all know what
sort o’ luck ole Charlie wants your dollar for: he wants it for luck
with the dames.”
“Well, I might,” Charlie admitted not displeased. “I haven’t been so
lucky that way lately--not so dog-_gone_ lucky!”
All of his guests, except one, laughed at this; but Collinson frowned,
still staring at the marked dollar. For a reason he could not have put
into words just then, it began to seem almost vitally important to him
to own this coin if he could, and to prevent Charlie Loomis from getting
possession of it. The jibe, “He wants it for luck with the dames,”
rankled in Collinson’s mind: somehow it seemed to refer to his wife.
“I’ll tell you what I’ll do, Smithie,” he said. “I’ll bet two dollars
against that dollar of yours that I hold a higher hand next deal than
you do.”
“Here! Here!” Charlie remonstrated. “Shack rules! Ten-cent limit.”
“That’s only for the game,” Collinson said, turning upon his host with a
sudden sharpness. “This is an outside bet between Smithie and me. Will
you do it, Smithie? Where’s your sporting spirit?”
So liberal a proposal at once roused the spirit to which it appealed.
“Well, I might, if some o’ the others’ll come in, too, and make it
really worth my while.”
“I’m in,” the host responded with prompt inconsistency; and others of
the party, it appeared, were desirous of owning the talisman. They
laughed and said it was “crazy stuff,” yet they all “came in,” and, for
the first time in the history of this “shack,” what Mr. Loomis called
“real money,” was seen upon the table as a stake. It was won, and the
silver dollar with it, by the largest and oldest of the gamesters, a fat
man with a walrus moustache that inevitably made him known in this
circle as “Old Bill.” He smiled condescendingly, and would have put the
dollar in his pocket with the “real money,” but Mr. Loomis protested.
“Here! What you doin’?” he shouted, catching Old Bill by the arm. “Put
that dollar back on the table.”
“What for?”
“What _for_? Why, we’re goin’ to play for it again. Here’s two dollars
against it I beat you on the next hand.”
“No,” said Old Billy calmly. “It’s worth more than two dollars to me.
It’s worth five.”
“Well, five then,” his host returned. “I want that dollar!” “So do I,”
said Collinson. “I’ll put in five dollars if you do.”
“Anybody else in?” Old Bill inquired, dropping the coin on the table;
and all of the others again “came in.” Old Bill won again; but once more
Charlie Loomis prevented him from putting the silver dollar in his
pocket.
“Come on now!” Mr. Loomis exclaimed. “Anybody else but me in on this for
five dollars next time?”
“I am,” said Collinson, swallowing with a dry throat; and he set forth
all that remained to him of his twelve dollars. In return he received a
pair of deuces, and the jubilant Charlie won.
He was vainglorious in his triumph. “Didn’t that little luck piece just
keep on tryin’ to find the right man?” he cried, and read the
inscription loudly. “‘Luck hurry back to me!’ Righto! You’re home where
you belong, girlie! Now we’ll settle down to our reg’lar little game
again.”
“Oh, no,” said Old Bill. “You wouldn’t let me keep it. Put it out there
and play for it again.”
“I won’t. She’s mine now.”
“I want my luck piece back myself,” said Smithie. “Put it out and play
for it. You made Old Bill.”
“I won’t do it.”
“Yes, you will,” Collinson said, and he spoke without geniality. “You
put it out there.”
“Oh, yes, I will,” Mr. Loomis returned mockingly. “I will for ten
dollars.”
“Not I,” said Old Bill. “Five is foolish enough.” And Smithie agreed
with him. “Nor me!”
“All right, then. If you’re afraid of ten, I keep it. I thought the
ten’d scare you.”
“Put that dollar on the table,” Collinson said. “I’ll put ten against
it.”
There was a little commotion among these mild gamesters; and someone
said: “You’re crazy, Collie. What do you want to do that for?”
“I don’t care,” said Collinson. “That dollar’s already cost me enough,
and I’m going after it.”
“Well, you see, I want it, too,” Charlie Loomis retorted cheerfully; and
he appealed to the others. “I’m not askin’ him to put up ten against it,
am I?”
“Maybe not,” Old Bill assented. “But how long is this thing goin’ to
keep on? It’s already balled our game all up, and if we keep on foolin’
with these side bets, why, what’s the use?”
“My goodness!” the host exclaimed. “_I’m_ not pushin’ this thing, am I?
_I_ don’t want to risk my good old luck piece, do I? It’s Collie that’s
crazy to go on, ain’t it?” He laughed. “He hasn’t showed his money yet,
though, I notice, and this old shack is run on strickly cash principles.
I don’t believe he’s got ten dollars more on him!”
“Oh, yes, I have.”
“Let’s see it then.”
Collinson’s nostrils distended a little, but he said nothing, fumbled in
his pocket, and then tossed the one hundred dollar bill, rather
crumpled, upon the table.
“Great heavens!” shouted Old Bill. “Call the doctor: I’m all of a
swoon!”
“Look at what’s spilled over our nice clean table!” another said, in an
awed voice. “Did you claim he didn’t have _ten_ on him, Charlie?”
“Well, it’s nice to look at,” Smithie observed. “But I’m with Old Bill.
How long are you two goin’ to keep this thing goin’? If Collie wins the
luck piece I suppose Charlie’ll bet him fifteen against it, and
then----”
“No, I won’t,” Charlie interrupted. “Ten’s the limit.”
“Goin’ to keep on bettin’ ten against it all night?”
“No,” said Charlie. “I tell you what I’ll do with you, Collinson; we
both of us seem kind o’ set on this luck piece, and you’re already out
some on it. I’ll give you a square chance at it and at catchin’ even.
It’s twenty minutes after nine. I’ll keep on these side bets with you
till ten o’clock, but when my clock hits ten, we’re through, and the one
that’s got it then keeps it, and no more foolin’. You want to do that,
or quit now? I’m game either way.”
“Go ahead and deal,” said Collinson. “Whichever one of us has it at ten
o’clock, it’s his, and we quit!”
But when the little clock on Charlie’s green painted mantel-shelf struck
ten, the luck piece was Charlie’s and with it an overwhelming lien on
the one hundred dollar bill. He put both in his pocket. “Remember this
ain’t my fault; it was you that insisted,” he said, and handed Collinson
four five-dollar bills as change.