_One of the Players Hadn't Long to Live, Anyhow, and So He Took a Hand
for a Final Deal._
"I haven't played any cards on railroad trains, even with friends, for
the past seven years," said Joe Pinckney, the Boston traveling man who
sells bridges and trestles in every land, at a New York hotel the other
night, "and it's more than certain that, for the remainder of my string,
I shall never again sit into a train game, whether it's old maid,
casino, whist or draw--especially draw. I used to play cards most of the
time when I was on the road just to relieve the monotony of traveling. I
don't recall that it ever cost me much, for I generally broke even and
often a little ahead on a years' play. I very rarely sat into a game in
which all of the other players were strangers to me, especially when the
game was draw or something else at so much a corner, and so I never got
done out of a cent.
"I know so many traveling men that a drummer friend of mine has an even
money bet with me that I won't be able to board a single train, anywhere
in this country, for the space of a year, without my being greeted by
some traveling chap with whom I am acquainted, and he wins up to date,
though the bet was made more than eight months ago. So that, when I used
to be in the habit of playing cards on the trains I always had some
fellow or fellows on the other side of the table that I knew to be on
the level. But I had an experience on a Western train seven years ago
that sort o' soured me on the train game; in fact, that experience
knocked a good deal of the poker enthusiasm out of me, and since then,
whenever I've got into a game with friends or acquaintances in a hotel
room, I've sized them up pretty carefully to see if they were all robust
men. Maybe you don't understand what possible connection there can be
between physical robustness and the game of American draw just now, but
you'll understand it when I tell you of this experience.
"In the spring of 1891 I got aboard the night train of the 'Q,' Chicago
to Denver. The train left Chicago at 9 o'clock at that time. When I was
seven years younger than I am now I never sought a sleeper bunk until 1
or 2 in the morning, and when I found that there wasn't a man on this
sleeper with whom I had ever a bowing acquaintance I felt a bit
lonesome. I started through the train to hunt up the news butcher to get
from him a bunch of traveling literature, and in the car ahead of me I
found Tom Danforth, the Michigan stove man, an old traveling pal of
mine. I sat down to have a talk with Tom when along came George
Dunwoody, the Chicago perfumery man, who had also paralleled me a lot of
times on trips. Inside of four minutes I had pulled both of 'em back to
my car and we had a game of cut-throat draw under way in the smoking
compartment. We started in at quarter ante and dollar limit, but when I
pulled 'way ahead of of both of them within an hour or so and they
struck for dollar ante and five-dollar limit, I was agreeable.
"We were plugging along at this game, all three of us going pretty slow,
and both of them gradually getting back the money I had won in the
smaller game, when a tall, very thin and very gaunt-looking young fellow
of about thirty entered the smoking compartment and dropped into a seat
with the air of a very tired man. I sat facing the entrance to the
compartment, and I thought when I saw the man's emaciated condition and
the two bright spots on his cheekbones, 'Old man, you've pretty nearly
arrived at your finish, and if you're making for Denver now I think
you're a bit too late.' My two friends didn't see the consumptive when
he entered the room, for their backs were turned to the door, but when,
while I was dealing the cards, the new arrival put his hand to his mouth
and gave a couple of short, hacking coughs, Dunwoody turned around
suddenly and looked at him.
"'Why, hello there, Fatty,' exclaimed Dunwoody, holding out his hand to
the emaciated man, 'where are you going? Denver? Why, I thought you were
there long ago? Didn't I tell you last fall to go there or to Arizona
for the winter? D'ye mean to say that you've been in Chicago all winter
with that half a lung and that bark o' yours? How are you now, anyhow,
Fat?'
"The emaciated man smiled the weary smile of the consumptive.
"'Oh, I'm all right, George,' he said, sort o' hanging on to Dunwoody's
hand. 'Going out to Denver to croak this trip, I guess. Didn't want to
go, but my people got after me and they're chasing me out there. I
wanted them to let me stay in Chicago and make the finish there, but
they wouldn't stand for it. My mother and one of my sisters are coming
along after me next week.'
"'Finish? What are you giving us, Fatty?' asked Dunwoody,
good-naturedly, but not with a great amount of belief in his own words,
I imagine. 'You'll be selling terra cotta tiles when the rest of us'll
be wearing skull caps and cloth shoes. Cut out the finish talk. You look
pretty husky, all right.'
"'Oh, I'm husky all right,' said the consumptive, with another weary
smile, and then he had another coughing spell. When that was over
Dunwoody introduced him to us.
"'Ed, alias Fatty, Crowhurst,' was Dunwoody's way of introducing him.
'Sells tiles, waterworks pipes and conduits. Called Fatty because he's
nearly six and a half feet high, has never weighed more than
thirty-seven pounds (give or take a few), and has never since any one
knew him had more'n half a lung. Thinks he's sick, and has laid himself
on the shelf for over a year past. No sicker than I am. Used to have the
record west of the Alleghanies for cigarette smoking. You've cut the
cigarettes out, haven't you, Fat?'
"For reply the consumptive pulled out a gold cigarette case, extracted a
cigarette therefrom and lit it. It was a queer thing to see a man in his
state of health smoking a cigarette. Dunwoody's eyes stuck out over it.
"'Well, if you ain't a case of perambulating, lingering suicide, Fatty,
I never saw one,' said he to his friend.
"'It's all one,' was the reply. 'It's too much punishment to give 'em
up, and it wouldn't make any difference anyhow.'
"I had meanwhile dished the hands out, and after my two friends had
drawn cards and I made a small bet they threw up their hands.
"'Draw, eh?' said the emaciated man, addressing Dunwoody. 'How about
making it four-handed?'
"'Oh, you'd better take it out in sleeping, Fat,' replied Dunwoody. 'You
look just a bit tired, and we're going to make a night of it, most
likely, with whisky trimmings. You can't do that very well without
hurting yourself, and if you came in and we got into you you'd feel like
playing until you evened up, and 'ud get no rest. Better not come in,
Fat. Better hit your bunk for a long snooze. We'll have breakfast
together when they hitch on the dining car at Council Bluffs.'
"'I haven't sat into a game of draw for a long while,' said Dunwoody's
friend, 'and I'd rather play than eat.'
"There was a bit of pathos in that remark, I thought, and I kicked
Dunwoody under the table.
"'Well, jump in then, Fatty,' said Dunwoody, and the poor chap drew a
chair up to the table with a look of pleasure on his drawn, hollow face,
with its two brightly burning spots on the cheekbones.
"It soon became apparent that Dunwoody's fear about our 'getting into'
the consumptive didn't stand any show whatever of being realized. The
emaciated man was an almighty good poker player, nervy, cool, and
cautious, and yet a good bit audacious at that. I caught him
four-flushing and bluffing on it several times, but he got my money
right along in the general play, all the same, and after an hour's play
he had the whole three of us on the run. I was about $100 to the rear,
and Dunwoody and Danforth had each contributed a bit more than that to
the consumptive's stack of chips. The fact was, he simply outclassed the
three of us as a poker player--and, by the way, I wonder why it is that
men that have got something the matter with their lungs are invariably
such rattling good poker players? I've noticed this right along. I never
yet sat into a poker game with a man that had consumption in one stage
or another of it that he didn't make me smoke a pipe for a spell. That
would be a good one to spring on some medical sharp for an explanation.
"By the time midnight came around Dunwoody's friend with the pulmonary
trouble had won about half as much again from us, and Dunwoody began to
look at his watch nervously. The three of us were taking a little nip at
frequent intervals, just enough to brush the cobwebs away, but the
sick-looking man didn't touch a drop. He smoked one cigarette after
another, however, inhaling the smoke into his shrunken lungs, and the
sight made all of us feel sorry, I guess, for the foolhardiness of the
man. Finally Dunwoody looked at his watch and then raised his eyes and
took a survey of the countenance of the consumptive, which was
overspread with a deep flush. The consumptive's eyes were
extraordinarily bright, too.
"'Fatty,' said Dunwoody, 'cash in and go to bed. 'You've had enough of
this. Poker and 112 cigarettes for a one-lunger bound for Colorado for
his health! Cash in and skip!'
"'No, I don't want to quit, George,' said the consumptive. 'I haven't
had anything like enough yet. What's more, I've got all of you fellows
too much in the hole. I only wanted to come in for the fun of it,
anyhow, and here I am with a lot of the coin of the three of you. I'll
just play on until this pay streak deserts me and give you fellows a
chance to win out.'
"When he finished saying this the man with the wasted lungs had another
violent spell of coughing and Dunwoody looked worried. But he gave in.
"'All right, Fat,' he said, 'do as you derned please, but I don't want
to be boxing you up and shipping you back to the lake front.'
"Then the game proceeded. I don't think any of us felt exactly right,
playing with a man who looked as if his days were as short-numbered as a
child's multiplication table, but maybe the fact that he was such a
comfortable winner from us mitigated our sympathy for him just a little
bit. He kept on winning steadily for the next hour, and about half past
1 in the morning there was a good-sized jackpot. It went around half a
dozen times, all of us sweetening it for five every time the deal
passed, and finally, on the seventh deal, which was the consumptive's,
Danforth, who sat on his left, opened the pot. I stayed, and so did
Dunwoody. When it was up to the dealer he nodded his head to indicate
that he would stay. We were all looking at him, and we noticed that he
had gone pale. It was noticeable after the deep flush that had covered
his face when he entered.
"Danforth took two cards. I drew honestly and to my hand, which had a
pair of kings in it, and I caught another one. Dunwoody asked for three
and then the dealer put the deck down beside him.
"'How many is the dealer dishing himself?' we all happened to ask in
chorus.
"'None,' answered the sick man, who seemed to be getting paler all the
time.
"'Pat, hey, Fatty?' said Dunwoody. 'Must be pretty well fixed, or, say,
are you woozy enough to try a bluff on this? You don't expect to bluff
Danforth out of his own pot?'
"The consumptive only smiled a wan smile.
"'Well, I hope you are well fixed,' went on Dunwoody, 'for it's your
last hand. I'm going to send you to your bunk as soon as I win this
jack.'
"'The limit,' said Danforth, the pot-opener, skating five white chips
into the center.
"'Five more,' said I, putting the chips in.
"'I'll call both of you,' said Dunwoody, shoving ten chips into the
pile.
"It was up to Dunwoody's consumptive friend. He opened his lips to speak
and little dabs of blood appeared at both corners of his mouth. His head
fell back and at the same time the cards in his hands fell face up on
the table. The hand was an ace high flush of diamonds. Dunwoody was
standing over him in an instant, and Danforth and I both jumped up.
Dunwoody wiped the blood away from the man's mouth with his handkerchief
and then put the back of his hand on the man's face.
"'It's cold,' said Dunwoody, with a queer look.
"Then he placed his ear to his friend's heart. We waited for him to look
up with a good deal of suspense. He raised his head after about thirty
seconds.
"'Crowhurst's dead,' was all he said.
"Dunwoody telegraphed ahead for an undertaker to meet the train at
Omaha. He gathered up the cards, too, and the chips.
"'Crowhurst won that pot,' he whispered to us. 'His pat flush beat all
of our threes.'
"Dunwoody was banker and he cashed all of the dead man's chips. Then he
took Crowhurst's body back from Omaha to Chicago in a box. Dunwoody
handed the $580 the dead man had won from us to his mother, telling her
that her son had given him the money to keep for him before turning into
his sleeper bunk.
"That," concluded the man who sells bridges and trestles, "is the reason
I've cut card-playing on trains for the past seven years."