To the man who, at any period of his days, has been bitten by that
ferocious and fever-producing insect colloquially known as the "horse
bug," and likewise to the man whose nervous system has been racked by
the depredations of the "poker microbe," these tales of the turf and of
the green cloth are sympathetically dedicated. The thoroughbred running
horse is a peculiar animal. While he is often beaten, the very wisest
veterans of the turf have a favorite maxim to the effect that "The
ponies can't be beat"--meaning the thoroughbred racers; which sounds
paradoxical enough. Poker, too, is a mystifying affair, in that all men
who play it appear, from their own statements, to lose at it
persistently and perennially. There is surely something weird and
uncanny about a game that numbers only losers among its devotees.
However, poker-players are addicted to persiflage. The genuine,
dyed-in-the-wool, blown-in-the-bottle pokerist rarely acknowledges that
he is ahead of the game--until the day after.
These stories, which were originally printed in the columns of the New
York _Sun_, belong largely to the eminent domain of strict truthfulness.
If they do not serve to show that the "horse bug" and the "poker
microbe" are good things to steer clear of, they will by no means have
failed of their purpose; for the writer had nothing didactic in view in
setting them down as he heard them.
_Clarence Louis Cullen_.
_New York_, _Sept. 1, 1900._