XII: High Stakes

The snow was gently sifting down through the white glare of the electric light when Pony Rowell buttoned his overcoat around him and left the Metropolitan Hotel, which was his home. He was a young man, not more than thirty, and his face was a striking one. It was clean cut and clean shaven. It might have been the face of an actor or the face of a statesman. An actor’s face has a certain mobility of expression resulting from the habit of assuming characters differing widely. Rowell’s face, when you came to look at it closely, showed that it had been accustomed to repress expression rather than to show emotion of any kind. A casual look at Pony Rowell made you think his face would tell you something; a closer scrutiny showed you that it would tell you nothing. His eyes were of a piercing steely gray that seemed to read the thoughts of others, while they effectually concealed his own. Pony Rowell was known as a man who never went back on his word. He was a professional gambler.

On this particular evening he strolled up the avenue with the easy carriage of a man of infinite leisure. He hesitated for a moment at an illy-lighted passage-way in the middle of a large building on a side street, then went in and mounted a stair. He rapped lightly at a door. A slide was shoved back and a man inside peered out at him for a moment. Instantly the door was opened, for Pony’s face was good for admittance at any of the gambling rooms in the city. There was still another guarded door to pass, for an honest gambling-house keeper can never tell what streak of sudden morality may strike the police, and it is well to have a few moments’ time in which to conceal the paraphernalia of the business. Of course, Mellish’s gambling rooms were as well known to the police as to Pony Rowell, but unless some fuss was made by the public, Mellish knew he would be free from molestation.

Mellish was a careful man, and a visitor had to be well vouched for, before he gained admission. There never was any trouble in Mellish’s rooms. He was often known to advise a player to quit when he knew the young gambler could not afford to lose, and instances were cited where he had been the banker of some man in despair. Everybody liked Mellish, for his generosity was unbounded, and he told a good story well.

Inside the room that Pony Rowell had penetrated, a roulette table was at its whirling work and faro was going on in another spot. At small tables various visitors were enjoying the game of poker.

“Hello, Pony,” cried Bert Ragstock, “are you going to give me my revenge to-night?”

“I’m always willing to give anyone his revenge.” answered Pony imperturbably, lighting a fresh cigarette.

“All right then; come and sit down here.”

“I’m not going to play just yet. I want to look on for a while.”

“Nonsense. I’ve been waiting for you ever so long already. Sit down.”

“You ought to know by this time, Bert, that when I say a thing I mean it. I won’t touch a card till the clock begins to strike 12. Then I’m wid ye.”

“Pshaw, Pony, you ought to be above that sort of thing. That’s superstition, Rowell. You’re too cool a man to mind when you touch a card. Come on.”

“That’s all right. At midnight, I said to myself, and at midnight it shall be or not at all.”

The old gamblers in the place nodded approval of this resolution. It was all right enough for Bert Ragstock to sneer at superstition, because he was not a real gambler. He merely came to Mellish’s rooms in the evening because the Stock Exchange did not keep open all night. Strange to say Ragstock was a good business man as well as a cool gambler. He bemoaned the fate that made him so rich that gambling had not the exhilarating effect on him which it would have had if he had been playing in desperation.

When the clock began to chime midnight Pony Rowell took up the pack and began to shuffle.

“Now, old man,” he said, “I’m going in to win. I’m after big game to- night.”

“Right you are.” cried Bert, with enthusiasm. “I’ll stand by you as long as the spots stay on the cards.”

In the gray morning, when most of the others had left and even Mellish himself was yawning, they were still at it. The professional gambler had won a large sum of money; the largest sum he ever possessed. Yet there was no gleam of triumph in his keen eyes. Bert might have been winning for all the emotion his face showed. They were a well matched pair, and they enjoyed playing with each other.

“There,” cried Pony at last, “haven’t you had enough? Luck’s against you. I wouldn’t run my head any longer against a brick wall, if I were you.”

“My dear Pony, how often have I told you there is no such thing as luck. But to tell the truth I’m tired and I’m going home. The revenge is postponed. When do I meet the enemy again?”

Pony Rowell shuffled the cards idly for a few moments without replying or raising his eyes. At last he said:

“The next time I play you, Bert, it will be for high stakes.”

“Good heavens, aren’t you satisfied with the stakes we played for to- night?”

“No. I want to play you for a stake that will make even your hair stand on end. Will you do it?”

“Certainly. When?”

“That I can’t tell just yet. I have a big scheme on hand. I am to see a man to-day about it. All I want to know is that you promise to play.”

“Pony, this is mysterious. I guess you’re not afraid I will flunk out. I’m ready to meet you on any terms and for any stake.”

“Enough said. I’ll let you know some of the particulars as soon as I find out all I want myself. Good-night.”

“Good-night to you, rather,” said Bert, as Mellish helped him on with his overcoat. “You’ve won the pile: robbing a poor man of his hard- earned gains!”

“Oh, the poor man does not need the money as badly as I do. Besides, I’m going to give you a chance to win it all back again and more.”

When Ragstock had left, Pony still sat by the table absent-mindedly shuffling the cards.

“If I were you,” said Mellish, laying his hand on his shoulder, “I would put that pile in the bank and quit.”

“The faro bank?” asked Pony, looking up with a smile.

“No, I’d quit the business altogether if I were you. I’m going to myself.”

“Oh, we all know that. You’ve been going to quit for the last twenty years. Well, I’m going to quit, too, but not just yet. That’s what they all say, of course, but I mean it.”

In the early and crisp winter air Pony Rowell walked to the Metropolitan Hotel and to bed. At 3 that afternoon the man he had an appointment with, called to see him.

“You wanted to see me about an Insurance policy,” the visitor began. An agent is always ready to talk of business. “Now, were you thinking of an endowment scheme or have you looked into our new bond system of insurance? The twenty-pay-life style of thing seems to be very popular.”

“I want to ask you a few questions,” said Pony. “If I were to insure my life in your company and were to commit suicide would that invalidate the policy?”

“Not after two years. After two years, in our company, the policy is incontestable.”

“Two years? That won’t do for me. Can’t you make it one year?”

“I’ll tell you what I will do,” said the agent, lowering his voice, “I can ante-date the policy, so that the two years will end just when you like, say a year from now.”

“Very well. If you can legally fix it so that the two years come to an end about this date next year I will insure in your company for $100,000.”

The agent opened his eyes when the amount was mentioned.

“I don’t want endowments or bonds, but the cheapest form of life insurance you have, and--”

“Straight life is what you want.”

“Straight life it is, then, and I will pay you for the two years or say, to make it sure, for two years and a half down, when you bring me the papers.”

Thus it was that with part of the money he had won, Pony Rowell insured his life for $100,000, and with another part he paid his board and lodging for a year ahead at the Metropolitan Hotel.

The remainder he kept to speculate on.

During the year that followed he steadily refused to play with Bert Ragstock, and once or twice they nearly had a quarrel about it--that is as near as Pony could come to having a row with anybody, for quarrelling was not in his line. If he had lived in a less civilized part of the community Pony might have shot, but as it was quarrels never came to anything, therefore he did not indulge in any.

“A year from the date of our last game? What nonsense it is waiting all that time. You play with others, why not with me? Think of the chances we are losing,” complained Bert.