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VII

That same night Pert, after another stormy interview with her father, had gone to her room, and, throwing herself on her little white bed, in a paroxysm of bitter grief, had softly sobbed herself to sleep.

Gradually into her dreams there came the whistled notes of a familiar little cadence, faint and far away at first, but growing louder and nearer until she awoke with a start.

It was "a whistle" which Checkers had taught her weeks before, and ran as follows:

 
Come, my love, and walk with me.
Yes, my love, I'll walk with thee.
Ta-ra-dum.
 

At this time, however, Checkers, standing down in the road outside, had cut the "ta-ra-dum" as flippant and irrelevant – a delicacy which, in her trepidation, Pert failed to remark. But, jumping up, she lighted her lamp, and cautiously exposed it at the window for a moment. Then, thanking fortune that she chanced to be dressed, she slipped a warm wrap over her shoulders, and stole down the stairs, out into the night.

Checkers folded her in his arms, and kissed her gently. "My darling," he murmured, "you haven't let them turn you against me, have you?"

"Why, Checkers dear," she answered looking into his eyes, "the whole world could n't turn me against you – I love you." Checkers kissed her again.

In the bright starlight they sat together, once more on the little rustic bench under the tree, listening with ready sympathy, as each related to each the trials of the day.

"No, little sweetheart," said Checkers finally, "there is no possible way for me to stay in Clarksville. The old man is practically right, I am a pauper, but I won't be long. Pert, I can hustle, when I want to; I 've got enough money to take me to Chicago, and keep me till I can get a job. When I get to work I 'll salt every cent, and with any kind of luck, I 'll come back and get you within a year. A year is not such a very long while." And with a show of genuine enthusiasm, Checkers ended by talking the downcast girl into a happy confidence in himself and the future.

"And now, Pert," he said, solicitously, "it's too cold for you to stay out here longer; come, we must be brave, and say good-bye."

"O, Checkers," she exclaimed, with a choking sob, suddenly throwing her arms around his neck, "I can't bear to let you go; I shall be miserable, miserable without you."

Tenderly Checkers soothed and reasoned with her. Once more their plans were gone over. Checkers was to leave in the morning for Chicago. He was to write to her as often as possible, addressing the letters to Sadie, whom Pert knew she could depend upon. Checkers was to bend every effort towards getting a position and saving money; and Pert was to be brave, and wait – the common lot of women.

With his arm around her, lovingly, he led her slowly to the house. Again and again they said good-bye; but there is something in the word which makes us linger.

"Some little keepsake, sweetheart," he whispered – "this ribbon, or your handkerchief."

"No; wait here a minute," she answered. Carefully entering the house, she crept to her room, and from its hiding-place brought forth a fifty-dollar gold piece. It was of California gold, octagonal in shape, and minted many years before.

"Here, dear," she said, returning noiselessly. "Here is a coin that was given me long ago by my grandfather – take it as a lucky-piece. And whenever you see it, think of one who loves you and is praying for you. And, Checkers, if you should have misfortune, and should really need to, don't hesitate to spend it; because, you see, if you don't have good luck, so that you do n't need to spend it, why it is n't a lucky piece, and you 'd better get rid of it – that is, if – if you have to."

Checkers embraced her passionately. "My darling," he protested, "I shall have to be nearer starving to death than I 've ever been, or expect to be, before I part with this. I shall treasure it as a keepsake from the dearest, sweetest, prettiest, sandiest girl in the world; the one that I love and the one that loves me; and here – here's a scarfpin that once was my father's. They say opals are unlucky. Well, father got shot, but I wore it the lucky day I met you; so that does n't prove anything – wear it for my sake. Now, dear, I must go. Keep a stiff upper lip, and do n't let the old man get in his bluff on you. Win your mother over – she'll help you out. I think she likes me; I am sure I do her. I 'll write to you every day. Good-bye, my precious – I 'll be back for you soon; good-bye, good-bye."

One last fond embrace, one lingering kiss, and Checkers turned and walked resolutely away.

The next morning early he bid the Bradleys a sorrowful farewell, and boarded the train for Little Rock. Mr. Bradley gave him letters to a number of merchants there, but he was unable to find employment. In fact, he only sought it in a half-hearted way; Little Rock was too small, too near Clarksville. Chicago was his Mecca. He felt a happy presentiment that once there circumstances would somehow solve for him the problem of existence. But, alas, for vain hopes! Day after day, from door to door, he sought employment without success. The answers he received to his inquiries for work were ever the same: "Business was dull; they were reducing rather than increasing their forces; sorry, but if anything turned up they would let him know." At times he received just enough encouragement to make his eventual failure the more disheartening and cruel.

How could he write to Pert under such circumstances? At first it had not been so hard; but now he had put it off from day to day, dreading to tell her of his non-success, always hoping that surely to-morrow he must have good news, until fully a week elapsed in which he had not written. How troublesome a thing is pride – to the poor.

In the course of his wanderings he came across numbers of the old companions of his pool-room days. Few of them had changed, but for the worse. Most of them were penniless, hungry and threadbare, but still the victims of the hopeless vice, and whenever fortune threw in their way a dollar, it went into the insatiable maw of the race-tracks. Checkers noted and was warned; and to their earnest solicitations to "play their good things" he pointed them to their own condition – a pertinent and unanswerable argument.

But though never so careful the time came apace when his little hoard was all but exhausted. His treasured keepsake he still vowed nothing should make him part with. "If I 've got to starve," he grimly resolved, "it might as well be a week or two earlier as later – but I 'll keep Pert's gold piece."

That same day he received from Pert a letter full of encouragement, but pleading with him, as he loved her, to write. "All in the world that I have to look forward to now, Checkers, dear," she said, "is your letters; and you can 't imagine how disappointed I am, and how I worry for fear you are sick, or something, as the days go by, and no word comes from you."

Standing by the window in his dismal boarding-house room Checkers read the letter over and over. Meditatively he examined his pockets – nothing! nothing but the gold piece. Something must be done. There were a number of garments hanging on the wall, among them an overcoat. "I can do without that," he said, with a shiver.

Half an hour later, richer by a few pieces of silver, he stood in a telegraph-office, penning a message to Pert. "Letter received," he wrote. "Am well, but no luck. Will write to-day. Checkers."

Beside him as he wrote, stood a man whom he recognized – one Brown, an owner of a racing-stable. With the tail of his eye Checkers read what he was writing. It was a telegram to some one in St. Louis, and ran: "Stand a tap on the mare to-day. She can't lose." Checkers' heart was in his mouth. Instantly his resolution was taken. Out into the street he followed Brown. With the furtive care of a Hackshaw he shadowed him in and out of hotels and saloons, until about noon they brought up at a restaurant, where Checkers modestly seated himself at a table behind Brown and ordered a light repast. But Brown was hungry, and Checkers had ample time to think the thing over. "I 'm in luck at last," he soliloquized. "Stand a tap on the mare! His friend will play it in the foreign-book at East St. Louis and he 'll play it at the track. It must be a 'hot one' – I wonder what the odds will be. Well, I 'll keep this can 't-shake-me glide on my feet till I see what he plays, and then 'get down' on it myself. I 'll put up the gold-piece, and stand to either lose it or make a stake for myself. Somehow I 'd feel better to have it go in one last effort to make a killin' than to spend it a quarter at a time on sandwiches and cigarettes. To-night I 'll either be able to write to Pert that my luck has turned, or I 'll know the worst, and that 's some comfort. Ah, Brown 's paying his bill at last."

The summer meeting at Washington Park, with large purses and high-class horses, was over and gone. But there were other tracks where racing was carried on all the fall and most of the winter; gambling-hells, pure and simple, or rather, purely and simply gambling-hells, which the Legislature has since effectively closed.

In the betting-ring of one of these, that afternoon, Checkers threaded his way through the crowd after Brown. The programme showed that Brown had an entry in the last race – Remorse, an aged selling-plater. Checkers remembered the horse as one that had shown considerable speed as a three-year-old. He glanced at the programme again: Remorse, by Gambler, dam Sweetheart. Was it an omen? Remorse would certainly follow if he gambled away the keepsake which his sweetheart had given him. But wouldn't an equally poignant regret possess him if after this providential tip he failed to play the horse and she won? He felt that it would.

The fourth race was on, and the last was approaching. Brown stood at the edge of the ring, his hands in his pockets, smoking idly. The official results of the fourth were announced, and the bookmakers tacked up the entries for the last. Still, Brown seemed nonchalant.

Checkers anxiously watched the posting of the odds. "Remorse, four to one," he exclaimed under his breath. Brown also glanced at the blackboards – and lighted a fresh cigar. Every minute some one would buttonhole him, and ask, "How about Remorse?" "O, she's got a chance," he would answer, with a shrug which seemed to indicate that she had no chance.

The favorite, under a heavy play, was rapidly cut to even money, while the odds on the others were correspondingly increased. Remorse went to five and six to one. Brown took fifty dollars out of his pocket, and, going up to a prominent bookmaker, played —the favorite. Checkers was paralyzed. The same performance Brown repeated with another book-maker on the other side of the ring. Gradually Remorse's price went up to eight to one, as it became generally known that her owner was not playing her.

The favorite's odds went to "four to five," and Checkers fingered his gold piece nervously. One book-maker still laid even money. Here was his chance if he wanted to play it. He started forward, and stopped. As he hesitated, Brown sauntered out of the ring. Checkers followed mechanically.

From a distance he saw Brown meet two horsemen and, after a brief conversation, give them each a roll of bills. He saw these two enter the betting-ring and, taking opposite sides, "start down the line" on Remorse; then the scheme was revealed to him.

From stand to stand they went, betting Remorse in each book, ten and twenty dollars at a time; not enough to cause remark, but amounting to hundreds in the aggregate. Gradually the odds began to recede. Checkers rushed to the other end of the ring. "Gimme Remorse!" he exclaimed, excitedly, handing his gold-piece to a convenient blockman.

"What the 'ell's this?" asked the wondering book-maker.

"It's fifty," answered Checkers, laconically.

"Well, it's the first time I ever seen one of them babies – but it looks like it's good. Remorse, four hundred to fifty."

"If I win, I want it back," said Checkers. "It was given to me by – it's my lucky piece."

"All right," was the answer, and Checkers walked away with his dearly purchased ticket deep in his pocket.

Under a steady but somewhat mysterious play, Remorse was cut to four to one, and the favorite went up to six to five. This was gratifying to Checkers, as indicating that Brown and his friends were confident.

He went up into the grand stand; the horses were at the post. Remorse was acting very badly – plunging, kicking and refusing to break. "I 'll just about get left at the post," thought Checkers. "Say, that favorite looks good," he remarked to a young fellow next to him.

"Good," echoed the youth; "well, I should say he is good. He 's cherry-ripe, and he 'll gallop in. If I had a thousand dollars, and did n't know where I was goin' to eat to-night, I 'd put it all on him. There 's a lot of 'marks' around toutin' Remorse to beat him – why, that old mare could n't beat a carpet; her last two races she could n't get out of her own way."

This was pleasant for Checkers, but he held his counsel. The next moment the starter dropped the flag.

Remorse, with a running start from behind, got two lengths the best of it; and, setting a hot pace, widened up the gap between herself and the field in a way that cheered Checkers' heart.

It was a three-quarter dash, and at the half she had a lead of at least ten lengths, with the others strung out in a regular procession. The favorite was trailing along in fifth place; but Checkers noticed that he was "running easy." The jockey was leaning back in the saddle, and the horse's mouth was pulled wide open, as he fought for his head under a double wrap.

As they rounded into the stretch Remorse still led, but she seemed to be tiring rapidly. The favorite swung very wide at the turn, losing several lengths; his jockey then drew in behind three others, and allowed himself to be hopelessly "pocketed."

Up to now Checkers' new acquaintance had been silent; but at this exhibition of incompetent jockeyship he expressed a desire to be "good and damned if that ride would n't frost a cigar-sign Indian."

Under whip and spur Remorse staggered on two lengths in the lead. Within fifty feet of the wire the favorite got through, and coming with a rush, as it seemed almost in spite of his jockey's efforts to restrain him, he nipped Remorse on the post.

From where Checkers stood it looked as though Remorse was beaten half a length. The crowd yelled with delight; No. 4 was posted. Checkers looked at his programme – "Remorse, No. 4." Then it was his turn to yell, and he rather abused his privilege. The tumult of varied emotion within him demanded this vent, and he gave it full play. "I thought I was out of it," he laughed delightedly to the young man beside him. "It looked like it, did n't it, at the angle? You see, Remorse had the rail."

But the young man was n't interested in Checkers' good luck. Just then he had "troubles of his own." He vouchsafed one glance of sour contempt and hurried off to try to borrow car-fare from some one.

Often Checkers had won and lost more money than was involved in his present venture and stood it stoically; but never before had his need been so great, and he had reason to know that necessity and luck have at best little more than a speaking acquaintance. Exultantly, therefore, he skipped down the stairs into the betting-ring. "You can 't keep a squirrel on the ground," he chuckled. "They 've got to stop printing money when I ain't got some." The next minute he was in line behind the stand where he had made his purchase, tightly grasping the ticket which was to give him back his gold-piece and four hundred dollars.

Four hundred dollars! It was a snug little sum. The gold-piece had proved a mascot after all. Now, he would "get out" his overcoat and purchase some other necessary articles. He decided to pay off his landlady and find some more inviting quarters. But the pleasantest thought of all was that now he could write to Pert. The delight he found in this reflection could only have been surpassed by the joy of seeing her in person. He did not know what he should say; but he knew that with this load off his heart, and with the return to self-respect which this success had brought him, he would be able to write a letter which would encourage and cheer her – it should be his first task. He longed to be at it, and he began to chafe at what seemed an unusual delay in announcing "the official."

Turning, he glanced toward the judge's stand. There was a surging, interested crowd around it. A presentiment of sudden misfortune came over him. Almost at the same moment the air was rent by joyous yells from hundreds of throats.

The crowd turned about, and with one accord made a rush for the betting-ring.

In the van was Checkers' surly acquaintance – surly no longer, but radiant with a smile which extended from ear to ear. Checkers broke from the line, and grabbed him by the arm. "What 's up?" he exclaimed. "What's the yelling about?"

"All bets off," was the glad rejoinder; "the favorite was 'pulled.' The judges are onto a job in the race. It was 'fixed' for Remorse. We all get our money back. Let go – I 'm in a hurry."

Checkers stood as though paralyzed from an actual blow. His eyes were fixed and his lips were colorless. "By the bald-headed, knock-kneed Jove!" he exclaimed, suddenly rousing himself with a vehement gesture; "if my luck ain't – " But he felt it impossible to do the occasion justice.

With a set face and a heavy heart he again lined up behind the stand. In turn he was given his gold piece in exchange for his ticket, but the $400 was gone, to return no more forever.

Under any sudden and crucial misfortune the subsequent action of the average man is largely a matter of temperament. Numbers, no doubt, in Checkers' position would have felt themselves justified in drowning their sorrows in the flowing bowl. Others, with the obstinacy of despair, might 'ave sought, perforce, the smiles of frowning fortune, throwing discretion to the winds, and risking their all at any desperate game chance threw in their way until satiated. A few might have taken their hard luck resignedly, only thankful that it was no worse, and hoping for better luck next time – such are they who, in the end, succeed.

These alternatives occurred to Checkers in turn, and he effected a sort of compromise. He needed a temporary excitement of some sort as a counter-irritant to his nerves. He was tired and hungry, and he decided that his first move would be to get a good supper. He did n't care how good or what it cost – he was tired of practicing economy. But he must have some money; it would hardly do to "spring" the fifty in a restaurant. Ah! Uncle Isaac! Yes, he believed he could pawn the gold piece as he would a watch, and then if luck ever came his way, he would have a chance of redeeming it.

The staid old waiters in a fashionable caf£ smiled that evening as a youthful figure entered with an unaccustomed air, and, seating himself at one of the tables, studied the menu earnestly. A few deft suggestions from one of them, however, put him in the way of a very good supper; and with a pint of Mumm's to wash it down, and a cigarette to top off with, Checkers, for it was he, began to feel that things might have been a bit worse after all. As he stepped into the street, the glaring and impossible posters of a spectacular show at a neighboring theater caught his eye and decided him. Five minutes later he was comfortably seated in the front row of the orchestra chairs, enjoying himself in present forgetfulness of troubles past or troubles to come.

Now, I fear, that to properly do my part, I should here create a dream for Checkers to have had that night, in which Pert, Remorse, a waiter, and a comedian should all take more or less senseless parts. But being somewhat skeptical myself, I was careful to question Checkers on this point, especially when I afterward learned what great things the morrow had in store for him. And, in spite of all precedent, he confessed to the oblivion of "the insensate clod," devoid of dream or premonition, until nine the next morning, when he awoke with a start. With the awakening came a realizing sense of his situation in all its most disheartening phases. His course of the night before now seemed to him the height of idiocy. He reproached himself in no measured terms for having neglected to write to Pert as promised in his telegram. "I ought to have a guardian appointed to look after me," he grumbled to himself. "Think of my blowing myself for wine and the show, with starvation staring me in the face; and then to think of that poor little girl expecting a letter, and not getting it."

He was interrupted by a knock at the door. "A letter for you, Mr. Campbell," said the servant. Taking it from her he recognized the well-known writing of his beloved. He put the letter in his pocket, and, grabbing his hat, started down the stairs. "I 'm too late for breakfast here," he exclaimed; "I 'll go next door to the 'beanery' and get a roll and a cup of coffee. I 've got to play 'em close to my vest now," he sighed. "A dime is nothing when you 've got it, but it 's bigger than a mountain when you have n't; and it won 't be long before I have n't at this rate."

Seated on a little round stool at the corner in the "beanery," he gave his order, and then opened and commenced to read his letter. A newspaper clipping dropped to the floor; he picked it up mechanically, continuing his reading as he did so. Suddenly he began to glance from one to the other rapidly. An instant later he jumped to his feet, and rushed to the window for a better light. It could n't be true – it simply could n't! Yes, yes, it must be; for here was a notice from the public administrator in Baltimore, advertising for him as an heir of Giles Edward Campbell, deceased, who died intestate, etc., etc., and Judge Martin, so Pert said in the letter, had had an inquiry regarding him, with the statement that the only knowledge the authorities had of such a person was based upon a letter found among the effects of the deceased, headed "Eastman Hotel, Hot Springs," beginning "My dear Uncle," and signed "Your affectionate nephew, Edward Campbell." The clerk at the Eastman, when applied to, had reported a memorandum left by Checkers, that any mail which might come for him be forwarded to Clarksville, Ark.; hence this letter to Judge Martin, and hence Pert's knowledge of the matter, as her uncle immediately applied to her for the necessary information.

"Uncle has written to Baltimore to-day," continued the letter, "and he says you will hear from the authorities there without delay. The inclosed clipping is from a Little Rock paper. Oh! Checkers, darling, is n't it lovely?"

The slovenly waiter shuffled to the counter with his cup of muddy coffee and a soggy roll. Checkers tossed him half a dollar, and stalked majestically out. "I think the joint where I ate last night is just about my size this morning," he chuckled. "Gee, but I 'd like to yell just once. The judges can't call all bets off this time." All during breakfast his mind was busy with a thousand different speculations, and he finally decided that in so momentous a matter he ought to consult a lawyer. "I 'll find one in some big office building," he mentally resolved, "and get his advice."

MURRAY JAMESON,

Attorney-at-Law.

This, in modest gold letters upon an office window, was the first thing he saw upon reaching the street.

"Everything 's coming my way to-day," he thought. "Well, I 'll go in and see the old joker."

He was much taken aback upon entering, however, to find the "old joker" a man of about thirty.

"Is Mr. Jameson in?" he asked.

"I am Mr. Jameson," was the reply.

"Well, I wanted to get a little advice, but – "

"Certainly; come into my private office."

Checkers was trapped. "I do n't believe," he began desperately, "that you 'll be able to help me. It's a very important case, and – well, I – I want some one with a lot of experience."

"As you like," said Mr. Jameson, who, by the way, was none other than my old friend Murray, "but I 've been practicing law for more than five years."

"Well, that's enough practice to learn any game;" and, seating himself, Checkers told him the facts as succinctly as possible from the beginning.

Of his uncle's circumstances he really knew nothing; but he remembered hearing his mother speak of him, just before her death, as being "well off," and "Uncle Giles was n't the kind, once he had a dollar, ever to let it get away."

If Checkers' chronology was correct, it was clear that he was the only heir, and "whether his Uncle left much or little, it was that much better than nothing at all." But Murray somewhat damped his enthusiasm by the statement that there might be bills and claims of various sorts against the estate, which, in the end, would show it to be insolvent. However, he agreed to take the matter up at once, and be content to receive his fee when the final settlement was made.

Checkers spent the rest of the day in writing the long-delayed letter to Pert, telegraphing her in the mean time that he had received her letter, and expressing his thanks.

A few days brought to light these facts concerning Giles Edward Campbell, deceased: He had drawn a large pension undeservedly for years, and by pinching and saving had amassed a fortune. Under Cleveland in '84 his pension was annulled, and about the same time he was nearly bankrupted in a greedy and foolish speculation. Then fear of absolute want must have seized him, for, converting the little that was left into gold, he hoarded it in miserly fashion; loaning it at usurious rates, and hiding it when not in use in chests and crannies in his den. At the time of his death, which was due more to lack of nourishment than to anything else, there was found upon his person and in nooks and corners of his room, thirty thousand dollars in gold and government bonds, all of which in due time became the property of Checkers.