He went out again and stood upon the platform until the last vestige of Clarksville was pa.s.sed. He then found a seat in the smoking-room and smoked until almost morning.

"Chicago!" Checkers stood once more upon his native heath. He had come directly from Little Rock, had rented a modest room, and had taken up again the thread of a drifting, devil-may-care existence.

Gradually, the constant, active, throbbing pain of his bereavement wore away, and in its stead there came a sullen, morbid sense of the uselessness of all things. He had neither friends nor acquaintances; even Murray Jameson was out of town. He haunted the Fair grounds in the daytime and the theatres at night.

"Excitement and Forgetfulness"--this might have been his watchword.

I feel that if I could have met him at this time instead of almost a year later as I did, I might have brought an active pressure to bear upon him, and saved to him the good that the refining influence of his wife and his Clarksville connections had done him. But, alas! in this busy world there is no such thing as standing still. We either advance or retrograde. The hill is steep to climb, but going down is easy.

Checkers went down; gradually, it is true, but still he went down.

By degrees he met his fellow-roomers in the house--good fellows, all of them, in their way, but worthless. Checkers craved companionship.

Often he sat in a poker game all night with them, in some one of their rooms, or "did the Midway" with them, ever "mocking the spirit which could be moved to such a thing," but sometimes finding in it a temporary respite from the bitter, haunting memories of the past.

It would be difficult to follow, and uninteresting to read, the devious windings of Checkers' way during the next few months. Hardened, despondent, and utterly careless; without the restraining influence of worthy friends or home ties to soften and hold him; with money, but no occupation; time, but nothing to do with it--little wonder is it that, after the great White City finally closed its gates, shutting him off from his one simple pleasure, he gradually drifted back to the stirring scenes of his youth--the races and the betting-ring.

The history of every one of the hundreds of thousands of men who have "played the races" may be told in three short words: "They went broke"--sooner or later. Generally sooner than later; but "they went broke."

So it was with Checkers. Good information, careful betting--playing horses for place when he thought they could win; sometimes not risking a cent all day; watching the owners, standing in with the jockeys--all this put him nicely ahead for a while, and staved off the evil day for long. But the eternal law of average will not down, and the percentage in the betting-ring is absurdly against the bettor. A streak of hard luck; a slaughter of the favorites; a plunge; throwing good money after bad; doubling up once or twice; a final coup. Pouf! One afternoon Checkers found himself penniless.

That night he p.a.w.ned his watch for all it would bring. This put him in funds again, but gave him pause. He decided to stop gambling and go to work. But the morning paper contained a tempting list of entries. It was Sat.u.r.day, and a short day.

He went to the track as usual, and at the end of the third race was "broke." Then he met Murray Jameson. Both were surprised. Checkers told him his story, and borrowed ten dollars. Murray lost fifty more by playing Checkers' tips, against his own better judgment. Murray was "sore"--Checkers apologetic. This was his first experience as a tout.

After that he picked up a precarious living, selling whatever articles of value he possessed, one after another, until he had left but the diamond star he had given Pert as a wedding gift, and a scanty wardrobe.

When necessity caused him to part with the star he forswore the races, and for two full weeks conscientiously sought for legitimate employment. But Chicago was filled with idle hands, which the closing of the Fair months before had left there stranded. Everything was overcrowded. Business was dead, and his search was unavailing. Then he took up "touting" as a profession. He rotated between the various "merry-go-rounds," which were open all seasons of the year. The tout's stock devices--the "bank-roll" game, the "phoney" ticket, the "jockey's cousin"--he worked with better success than most; but, as a rule, his method was simple. He sought the acquaintance of such as he thought might be "persuaded," and by showing confidence where they were doubtful, knowledge where their own was lacking, he usually managed to get some four or five men to make bets during the day. Those who won were grateful, and generally paid him well for his "information." The losers got an explanation of "how it was" and "a sure thing for the next."

One thing, however, must be said for Checkers. He never "touted" a horse unless he thought it had a best chance of winning. That is, if there were five horses in a race, and Checkers had five men "on his string," he never descended to the common practice of getting each one of the five to bet on a different horse, and thus "land a sure winner."

All five were certain to have the same chance, and to stand or fall upon Checkers' judgment.

Some weeks later it was that I first met him, at Washington Park, Derby Day. He told me afterward that the minute he saw me he knew me for a "mark" and tried to "get next."

Yet, for all, Checkers was not innately bad. He was weak, I 'll admit, and cruelly mistaken; but he had a simple, lovable nature, and a natural longing for higher things. A case in point: I learned by chance that he never missed a Sunday at church since the death of his wife. He had no predilection, and I espied him one day in my own sanctuary. When questioned about it he told me these facts, and confessed to the pleasure he found in going.

"I don't know," he said; "I always enjoy it. It's quiet and cool; everybody 's well dressed, and I like to sit there, close my eyes, think over my troubles, and listen to the music. And then, again"--here his voice grew soft--"I 've a feeling that it pleases Pert to know that I 'm there. She liked me to go to church, and I think she knows it now when I go; do n't you? I would n't take a great deal of money and think that she did n't know."

What Pert must have thought of his actions weekdays was perhaps a fair question; but it was one that I had the heart not to ask. And so it went on; my efforts to get him a position and reform him ending in nothing, as I have previously related.

After the big meeting closed Checkers reached his lowest ebb. It was during these days that he made my office a loafing place. I suppose that for six weeks I practically supported him, lending him two or three dollars at a time, to "square his room rent," "get out his overcoat," "pay a doctor's bill," "play a good thing," and heaven knows what not--each time a.s.suring him that I positively would not succ.u.mb again, but regularly doing so. Still, I never begrudged it. A couple of hours with him was worth a few dollars at any time. I divided the expense between my amus.e.m.e.nt and charity accounts; and, in truth, when with him I never could tell whether pleasure or compa.s.sion had the upper hand with me. I have tried to set down with some succinctness the major part of his experiences as I heard them; but I fear they have greatly lost, in the telling, that delicious flavor of originality which Checkers' person, voice, and manner gave to them as I heard them piecemeal. Many of his sayings, when repeated afterward by Murray or me, scarcely caused a smile, while coming from him they had seemed to us excruciatingly funny. But I believe the secret was this--he never seemed to say anything with the primary idea of being funny. He always looked up with genuine surprise when his listeners laughed, and only joined them, when the mirth was infectious, by deepening a little the cynical curves at either corner of his expressive mouth.

For two weeks I missed him. On a morning of the third he came in with a look of happiness on his face. "I 've got a job," he said, simply.

I wrung his hand.

"Where?" I asked.

"With Mr. Richmond."

Richmond was one of my friends. He was a partner in a wholesale paper-house. As a boy Checkers had worked in a paper-house and knew the stock. As a consequence he had been after Richmond, whom he had met through me, to give him a position. Richmond liked him, and, when an opportunity offered, he sent for him and put him to work in the stock. At the end of two weeks he determined to give Checkers a chance upon the road. So Checkers was going out that night, and had come to say good-bye. I was delighted, you may be sure. I gave him good advice, and bade him G.o.dspeed. A few days later I received this characteristic letter, dated from some little town in Kansas:

"DEAR MR. PRESTON:

"I 'm here doing a stage-coach business--straining the leaders of my legs, hustlin'. If trade keeps up I 'll have coin to melt when I get home, and you bet I 'll melt it. The food out here would poison a dog.

I ain't got the health to go against it. I 've been sick ever since I left Chicago, anyhow, on account of Murray Jameson. I met him at the depot the night I left. He had a box of cigars he said a friend of his brought him from Mexico. He gave me a handful. I got on the train, and got busy with one--I like to croaked. Strong!!! Oh, no--it was n't strong! Drop one of them in a can of dynamite and it's ten to one it would 'do' the can. Start a 'Mexican' and a piece of Limburger in a short dash, it's a hundred to one you 'd need a searchlight to find the Limburger. I 've switched to cigarettes.

"I got in here at six to-night, and I 'm going to get away at one.

After supper (Supper! I 'll tell you about that later!) I went over to the only shanty in the place that looked like a store, and opened the door. There were a lot of 'Jaspers' sitting around the stove, chewing tobacco and swapping lies. I asked the guy that got up when I came in where he kept his stock (he had nothing in sight). He lighted a lantern, walked me a quarter of a mile, and showed me four 'mooley-cows'--say, I was sore. But I 'm square with him--I gave him a couple of 'Mexicans.'

"That supper! Well, say, it was a 'peach.' (I had an egg this morning and it was a 'bird.') I sat down to the table with a St. Louis shoe-man. We turned the things down one by one as they came in. A few soda-crackers on the table saved our lives. We tried the griddle-cakes. They were pieces of scorched, greasy dough, as big as pie-plates. There were a couple of 'Rubes' at the other end of the table; a short, little, fat one, and a long, lean, thin one. We shoved the cakes on down their way. They ate their own and ours, and ordered more. I bet the shoe-man five on the fat one. We ordered more ourselves and pushed them along. The thin man finally began to weaken, but the fat one got stronger every minute. My friend said I was 'pullin',' and wanted to draw the bet; but I made him 'give up.'

"Just as we were going, the waitress came up with a grouch on, stuck out her chin, and says, 'Pie?'

"'Is it compulsory?' says the shoe-man.

"'Naw; it's mince.'

"'Well, that lets us out,' he says, and we skipped."

_Later_--

"I got interrupted here. The boys wanted me to play 'high-five' until train-time; I picked up a little 'perfumery money,' and came up here to Kansas City to spend Sat.u.r.day night and Sunday.

"There 's a lot of 'rummies' I used to know hanging around here, 'broke.' They 've all 'got their hand out.' One of them made me a talk last night for enough to get to St. Louis on--said he 'must get there.'

"'Well,' I says, 'try the trucks; how are you on swinging under?'

"'Yes,' he says, 'you're in luck, and makin' a swell front, with your noisy duds and plenty of money, but it's a wonder you would n't 'let your blood gush' a little when you see an old friend of yours in trouble.'

"That was a new one on me, and I 'loosened.' Well, perhaps he 'll do me a good turn some time.

"Now, I must close. I see dinner's ready. There's a big, fat guy has been beating me out in a race for a seat I want in the dining-room. I 'll 'put it over him a neck' to-day for the chair. The cross-eyed fairy that waits on that table can dig up cream while the rest of the waitresses are looking around to see if there 's any skimmed milk in the joint.

"Yours till death--and as long after as they need me at the morgue.

"EDWARD CAMPBELL."

Occasionally I met Richmond and asked him how Checkers was doing. "Not badly," was the usual answer. "He is handicapped, though," explained Richmond one day, "by not thoroughly knowing our goods and those of other houses. After this trip I shall put him to work in the store again for a while."

But this never occurred. Either by mistake or through a serious error in judgment, Checkers sold an unusually large bill at an absurdly low figure. This brought a sharp reproof from the house, which he answered cavalierly. His recall and prompt dismissal followed.

A month elapsed before I saw him. He had been trying to get another position before coming to me, for his pride was lowered. One morning he came in looking careworn and threadbare. I welcomed him cordially, as usual. But though neither of us referred to his recent misfortune, it caused an evident embarra.s.sment in his manner. After a few moments'

desultory conversation he drew a letter from his pocket. "Read that,"

he said simply, handing it to me. With difficulty I read what seemed to be a letter from Mr. Barlow, his father-in-law. In effect it set forth that he was now alone. Mrs. Barlow was dead, and her last dying request had been that he find Checkers and restore to him his own.

This he had solemnly promised to do. He complained that he was "poorly" himself, and expected to be carried off at any time, with "a misery in his chest." And he went on to say that if Checkers had not married again (perish the thought!), and would come back and live with him and take care of him, he would make him his heir to the old place as well, and to what little else he had to leave. He "did n't bear no grudge" for the loss of the house, as things had turned out--he "liked a lad of sperrit." However, whether he found Checkers or not, "the preacher and them whited sepulchers" at the church "should never finger a cent of what he left." There followed a tirade which seemed to show that the church people had made it hot for the old man after Checkers'

departure, and doubtless more so after the death of Mrs. Barlow.