Checkers: A Hard-luck Story

"Checkers," I said, "I want you to understand, once and for all, that I am no gambler. I went to the races Derby Day, as I would go to any other show, and now and then I play a little quarter limit game with my friends. But even that I do n't approve of. I tell you I consider gambling the most insidious of all the vices, and it's on just that point that I want to talk to you.

"I want you to give up that kind of life, get a position in some good house, and begin to make a man of yourself. I tell you you 're too bright a boy to be throwing yourself away as you are. Suppose your 'good thing' wins to-day – suppose you do make some money on it – you will lose it on something else to-morrow. You are simply living from hand to mouth, growing older every day with nothing to show for the time you have spent.

"Now, what I propose is simply this. I shall look about among all my friends in the wholesale lines, and try to find you a position where you can learn some business from the beginning. If you are industrious and quick it will be but a comparatively short time when you 'll have a chance to go on the road, or something of that sort. Now, what do you say?"

I can't say that Checkers seemed wholly delighted. He looked anywhere but into my eyes and finally said he "would like a job, but he did n't believe I could get him one."

I replied that I was sure I could, as my uncle was a wholesale dry-goods merchant, and I had several friends who were heads of departments in other large stores of various kinds.

"Well, we 'll try it and see," he said resignedly, "but I 'll tell you just about how it is. A guy goes into a wholesale house and he starts at the bottom in some department. He gets up at the break of day, and he works like the devil after a Christian. If he has good luck he do n't get 'fired,' but he never gets a raise on earth, unless the mug above him dies, or breaks down his health and has to quit.

"Why, I knew a joker who worked in a certain big store in this town for fifteen years. He lived somewhere way out in the suburbs, and he told me he had to get down so early, that when he was coming home at night he used to meet himself starting down in the morning. Well, one day some one gave him a pass to the Harlem track – one Saturday afternoon. He went to the races for the first time in his life. I got ahold of him and made him win three hundred dollars with a five-dollar bill, and you ought to have heard the talk he put up. 'Has this game been going on all this time,' he says, 'with me doing the Rip Van Winkle act? Why, I 'd be worth all kinds of money now, if I 'd had any sense.' And Monday he went down and threw up his job, and started in to play the ponies. Of course he went broke, but not long ago he struck a streak, and made a killin'. He started in to making a book, and now he's got a stable with five good sprinters, and a twenty thousand dollar bank-roll. If he had stuck to his job in that store, he 'd have probably had nervous prostration by this time."

"But the case you cite, Checkers, is one in a thousand," I said, smiling broadly in spite of myself. "While that one man may have made a success of a very questionable sort through unusual luck, or unusual shrewdness, there have numberless others gone to ruin – utter, irretrievable ruin, by giving way to their passion for gambling.

"If you object to a wholesale house, I may perhaps find something else for you to do. But it seems to me to be simply a shame that a boy of your ability and brains should be content to be nothing but a tout, and herd with the riff-raff and scum of creation. Now, once and for all, if you desire to better yourself, I shall be glad to help you; but otherwise I must simply refuse to have you about me any longer. Think it over and come in to-morrow, and tell me your decision. Now, you must excuse me as I have an engagement with this gentleman," and I turned to greet a friend whose timely arrival saved me from the "touch" which I could see Checkers was nerving himself to make.

I found however that to secure an immediate position for my protégé was a much more difficult matter than I had at first imagined. I spoke to a dozen different people. Most of them assured me that they already had more help than they had need of. Others needed no one now, but thought they might in a month or two. My uncle said that "for my sake he would try to make a place for my friend." But when I told him all the facts, he shook his head and looked very dubious.

Meanwhile at frequent intervals, Checkers would drop into my office, and chat of the happenings of other days, or tell me of his present doings. It seemed to me, as I often told him, that if he would only exercise one-half the thought and ingenuity in the pursuit of something legitimate that he used in "separating the angels he got next to from their gold," he would long since have achieved a fortune.

He delighted in telling of the successful working of some new scheme he had figured out for the trapping of the unwary. And at each recital I used to marvel at the boundless credulity of the average human.

But whenever I could I would start him off upon some incident in his former life. In the story of his boyish courtship, the trials he underwent in securing his wife, and his subsequent sorrows and misfortunes, there was an exquisite blending of humor and pathos which appealed to me immeasurably. It was seldom, however, that he would talk of those days – the sadness of it all was still too near to him. When he was in luck he never referred to them – he seemed to live in the present alone. But when, as was frequently the case, his luck deserted him and things went wrong, he would sometimes get a fit of the blues, and, falling into a reminiscent mood, would find a sort of morbid comfort in living it all over again. He would skip abruptly from scene to scene, one incident or person suggesting another, and in his own peculiar way he would describe a situation or picture a character with a vividness worthy of a Dickens. For instance, when, in speaking of his father-in-law, he said that "the family used to have to treat him with cocaine before he could stand it to give up a nickel," I thought it a very forceful way of expressing the old man's carefulness.

As the days went by and nothing came of my efforts to get a position for Checkers, I had perforce to drop the matter, and Checkers never again referred to it.

Gradually his visits became less frequent, as I ceased to continue a profitable subject; for his invention, however fertile, could not furnish new excuses forever. But I often found myself gathering up the threads of his story as he had told it, weaving into the growing fabric some strands of my own imaginings, until I seemed to find in it an odd and pathetic little romance.

The town of Clarksville, Ark., was not attractive at any time, but to Checkers, who had arrived there with Arthur Kendall at three o'clock that summer's morning en route from Hot Springs, the aspect of the place seemed particularly dismal.

The train which had brought them from Little Rock steamed away toward the Territory, and left them standing in darkness on the station platform.

A 'bus from the hotel, with two forlorn old horses driven by a sleepy, shock-headed boy, stood waiting on the other side. They entered it and went creaking off.

As Arthur had previously explained to Checkers, his father's home was some miles from town, and accordingly he thought it better for them to sleep at the hotel until morning, have their breakfast, and then drive out.

As they lumbered along the dusty streets in the silence of the early morning, Checkers peered curiously out, and found his original impressions gaining strength.

The stars were shining clear and luminous, and in the East there was just the faintest glow which told of the coming sunrise. A vaporish mist hung low on the ground, and in the dim uncertain light all objects seemed to take to themselves a weird and most uncanny look. At frequent intervals a "razor-back," already up and browsing about, would trot tardily out of the horses' way, grunting his dissatisfaction.

Shortly they turned into what seemed to be the street of the town. It was wider and dustier than any of the others, and on it stood a large brick structure, which Checkers judged to be the court house. It formed what is commonly known as "a square," for on opposite sides of the street as they passed Checkers noticed that most of the buildings were stores, with their low-burning lamps keeping watch through the night.

A few moments more and the 'bus drove up, and stopped before a low brick building.

Kendall, who had fallen asleep in his corner, awoke, and with a "here we are," jumped out and ushered Checkers into an ill-smelling room, where a heavy-eyed youth did the honors as clerk, and then lowering himself to the office of bell-boy, took their luggage and showed them the way to their room.

Arriving, they stood in the darkness, until he succeeded in lighting, with a sulphur match, a very much smoked little kerosene lamp, after which he brought them a pitcher of water, and departed without the formality of a "good night."

Immediately Arthur began to undress. This was all an old, old story to him. But Checkers fell to looking about him. He found that the door had no lock upon it, and that the windows opened wide upon a low veranda; that they boasted no screens, nor could he find that the beds had any mosquito-bars.

Kendall's face expressed a sleepy surprise. "Come on, old man; get undressed," he said, "it's nearly 4 o'clock. We have n't any too much time to sleep."

Checkers' only reply was to pull off his coat, and to sit down and begin to unfasten his shoes. A couple of June-bugs, attracted by the light, flew in at the window, and bumping around in their noisy, disagreeable way, gave Checkers an uncomfortable, crawly feeling.

The truth was, Checkers was wholly metropolitan, and this was a new experience. The darkness and silence disheartened and cowed him. He missed the confusion and glare of the city.

Kendall had fallen fast asleep, and was breathing loudly in half a minute. But Checkers lay wide-eyed and wondering, listening to the locusts and katydids outdoing themselves in the trees outside.

And then he fell to speculating about his chances for the future, wondering what the probable outcome of this new venture of his was to be. Had n't he been foolish in coming to such a God-forsaken little place? He might have borrowed some money from Kendall, and stayed at the Springs and recouped.

And now that, after several days of solicitous care and constant watching, he had succeeded in pulling Kendall through without his giving way to the terrible after-craving he had for liquor, would the promises made him be fulfilled, or had he been too credulous?

Kendall had told him that he and his father were wealthy. That besides their large fruit farm, they were interested in a general store and commission business. He had promised Checkers that if he would but consent to see him to his home in Clarksville, he should be given a good position in the store, and that if after they arrived there he found that he did not care to remain, he should have transportation to any place in the country he cared to go. And to Checkers, disheartened and penniless, out of conceit with gambling, and satiated with the excitement and uncertainty of the life he had been leading, the opportunity seemed a very godsend. Thoughts of the country, green and cool, appealed to him with a grateful sense of restfulness and quiet; and the idea of going to work again at something legitimate brought with it the feeling of conscious approval, which always accompanies virtuous resolves.

But since Kendall had become himself again, he seemed to have grown less dependent and thankful. And again the glimpse that Checkers had caught of the place had greatly dampened his ardor.

An hour dragged slowly by, and still he lay restlessly tossing about. The roosters began to crow and answer each other from point to point in the distance; and a hound near by with a mournful howl bayed dismally at intervals.

'Twas the strangeness of it all that kept him wakeful, but at last the tension was relieved by a knocking at the door of the room beyond which aroused a couple of drummers, who were called to catch an early train. He heard them through the thin partition, dressing and grumbling at their luck. Here at least was something natural, and gradually the humorous side of the situation appealed to him. He smiled, as with a long-drawn sigh he murmured, "I think I 'll get fat here, nit," and when he awoke it was broad daylight, and Kendall was standing over him, dressed.

"Hello, old man, awake at last," laughed Kendall. "Well, you better get up and dress, or we 're apt to miss our breakfast. How did you sleep? All right, I hope; you look as fresh as a mountain daisy."

Checkers crawled slowly out of bed. "Well, then my looks are a horrible bluff," he said, with the slight, sardonic smile which was usual to him at nearly all times. "I feel like the last end of a misspent life," and he fished a sock out from under the bed. "Do you know," he continued, as he held his shirt aloft, preparatory to putting it on, "it's wonderful how a fellow's early training comes back to him later in life. I recollect my mother used to read a psalm about not being 'afraid of the terror by night, nor the pestilence that walketh in darkness.' Now, somehow, it never struck me before, but I 'll bet the party that wrote the verse never slept in an Arkansas hotel bed. If he did, he had on his tin pajamas, or else he could beat 'the pestilence' walking. Say, where on earth is my other sock? I'll gamble that one of them pinchin'-bugs pinched it?" and Checkers kept up a running fire of quaint remarks while Kendall laughed.

Their breakfast was a culinary horror.

"Have you got any capsules?" asked Checkers of the waitress.

"Capsules!"

"Yes, I'll have to have some, if I take this butter internally." A kick under the table from Arthur put an end to further persiflage.

A two-seated spring wagon, known locally as a "hack," with two sturdy horses and a driver stood waiting for them. Arthur had sent out and ordered it before breakfast, and his telescope bag and Checkers' trunk he had caused to be firmly strapped into the end.

The day was a typically beautiful one. The clear and bracing morning air had in it just enough of a chill to make the sunshine grateful to them, as they drove along the winding road, toward the mountainous country lying beyond them.

Checkers' blues had disappeared with the vapors of the night before, and he felt the exultation of a new and pleasant experience. Arthur was in an easy humor, and described at considerable length to Checkers his family and their circumstances.

Some ten years back his father had moved from Massachusetts to that locality at the advice of his doctor. He had bronchial trouble, and he found the thin, clear air of the Ozarks beneficial. Mrs. Kendall was long since dead, and Arthur had been an only child. Besides these two there were in the household Aunt Deb, who was a sister of Mr. Kendall's, and "Cynthy," the cook, and maid of all work. There was also a good-natured creature named Tobe, half-witted and harmless, attached to the family, who did odd jobs for his board and keep, and had constituted himself a fixture.

At their store they sold everything from plows to perfumery. The commission business was simply an adjunct. They bought for cash from the farmers, and shipped the goods to Little Rock, and sometimes to St. Louis. Old Mr. Bradley, who had owned the store when they first came there, was running it now. They had bought him out, but had given him an interest and salary as manager.

The business was the pride of the old man's life, and he watched it as a mother watches her babe.

Arthur spent most of his time at the store, selling goods and talking to the trade; but the elder Kendall seldom went there. He passed the summer in his garden and among his fruit trees. In the winter he generally traveled farther South.

Checkers gathered by indirection that he was wealthy outside of his business. Probably an eccentric individual, who simply liked the place and stayed there.

"I should think," said Checkers, as Arthur paused in his recital, "that a fellow would fall into a trance in about a week, in a place like this. What on earth do you do with yourself."

"Well," said Arthur, "I haven't lived here much. I've been East to school, and knocked around in a lot of different places, and I like it here as a kind of a change. There are a couple of very nice girls in the town that I call on once in a while. I read a good deal in the evenings, and, in season, the shooting is fine. I 'll admit it gets rather stupid at times, but it's the best place in the world for me. You know they have 'local option' here, and you can 't get a drink for love or money. As long as I stay here, of course, I 'm all right; but as sure as I get away some place, I make a fool of myself, and get full, as I did when you rescued me at the Springs. Drinking is a disease with me. I can't drink as most fellows do. If I touch a drop it starts me off, and it's good-bye for a week or two. Each time I come home as the prodigal did, and my father comes out and 'falls on my neck.' He 's been devilish kind, the governor has, and I 've cost him a lot of money and trouble."

"Well, that's what a father has to expect," remarked Checkers. "If ever I have a son, I 'll begin storing up veal on the day that he's born – I'll need it if he takes after 'papa.'"

Arthur laughed and laid his hand caressingly upon Checker's shoulder. "Old man," he said, "I like you and I want you to stay here and be my chum. We 'll have some bully times together, and you 'll like it when you get used to the place. You 've treated me mighty white all through, and I want to tell you that I appreciate it."

Checkers grew red. He felt embarrassed, and hesitated for a reply. Arthur knew his story, or such of it as Checkers had seen fit to relate to him. But Checkers had never intimated that he was hopelessly dependent. He had spoken vaguely of relatives; of drawing a draft on Uncle Giles; of telegraphing to Chicago for money; it lent him respectability.

It must be remembered that at this time Checkers had not been through the most trying part of the experiences of which he had spoken while dining with me at Kinsley's that night. And while by no means Arthur's equal in the social scale, he was still very far from being the hardened tout, whom two years later, I met at the race-track, Derby Day.

Nevertheless, he himself felt a difference intuitively, and though he had exercised to the full his talent for making himself companionable, it had proved a very difficult task to fully break through Arthur's reserve. This sudden show of sentiment, therefore, upon Arthur's part, affected and pleased him; and reaching up to the hand on his shoulder, he grasped it warmly. "I 'll go you," he said. And the two friends smiled into each other's eyes.