University of Virginia Library

13. CHAPTER XIII.
THE GAMESTER.

“I MERELY wish to warn you of your danger,”
said the vagabond. “Too many know
where you spend your evenings.”

“Well,” said the young man. “Go on.”

“Have I not said enough?”

“Enough to interest me, but not enough to
convince me of your good faith.”

“Then I will speak more plainly. You
spend your nights in gaming. The police have
an eye upon your place of resort. Last night
you were seen to go in, and this morning you
were seen to come out. Some night you will
be surprised, and held up to the public eye.”

“Thank you,” said the youth. “You have
done me good service. It is important for me
to know that even you have the secret of my
mode of life. Name your reward.”

“I ask nothing,” said the vagabond.

“Nothing! What then induced you to
trouble yourself on my account?”

“You interest me. I saw you young — just

commencing a dangerous career. I could not
rest until I had warned you of immediate danger,
and spoken to you of the guilt and folly
of your profession.”

“Ha! that is another thing!” cried the
youth, frowning. “I know enough of that
already.”

“You know of its excitements — of the
fascinations of play; but you have not yet experienced
the wretchedness which is sure to
follow in the train of such vices. You have
been flattered by fortune; you have been
enchanted with success; but you have not
tasted the bitter dregs of the cup you are
draining.”

“Upon my soul!” cried the young man,
“you speak like one having experience.”

“I speak of what I know and understand,”
replied the vagabond. “I was once like you
— enchanted with dissipation and vices. I
was successful for a time, but wine and play
made me what you now behold me.”

“My good fellow, give me your fist!”
cried the youth, warmly. “I feel interested in
you already. Let me hear your history. I'd
like to know how a man who has been successful

in play feels when he is going down
hill.”

“I commenced my descent before I knew
any thing of gaming,” said the vagabond,
keeping his earnest eyes on the handsome
face of his companion. “I took to play to
retrieve my fortunes. By some strange freak
of fortune, I won large sums before I knew
any thing of the tricks of the profession. But
my reverses were sudden. One day I was the
possessor of considerable wealth; the next
morning I found myself penniless. I never
was fortunate afterwards, and poverty cured
my passion for play.”

“If I should find myself penniless to-morrow,”
added the youth, with a melancholy
smile, “our fortunes would be similar. I, too,
resorted to play from a sort of necessity.”

“You — so young!” exclaimed the vagabond.
“Have you no parents?”

“None to speak of,” replied the other, bitterly.
“My father deserted me in the helplessness
of my childhood. He was an unnatural father.
I sometimes curse his memory; for, a slave to
his own passions, he had no care of his family.
If I am a gambler, I have to thank my father

for it; if I hate the world, — as I do most cordially,
— it is because — Dear sir! you look
ill! you are fainting!”

“No, no; I am subject to such turns. It
is nothing,” said the vagabond, passing his
hand across his ghastly face. “There — is
is over. Go on, sir, with what you were
saying.”

“I say, my father is the cause of all my follies
and crimes! But I forgive him. He is
dead, and peace be with his ashes. I inherited
his passions — his failings. I always hated
work, and loved leisure. My mother, who
was once a good-hearted woman, I suppose,
had become an awfully severe one, through
her experience with my father. I believe she
got to hate him, and every thing like him, so
that she could not look at me, as I grew up,
with any sort of comfort. As my father was
but little inclined to labor, she came to the conclusion
that I must kill myself with work and
forego all indulgences, even those of the most
innocent and necessary character. She was
going to make a different man of me from my
father. Poor woman! she meant well, I suppose;
but I couldn't endure such discipline. I

would not work and study, and study and
work, day after day, nor would I bear punishment.
In short, I ran away; followed — I
suppose she thinks — in the footsteps of my
illustrious father.”

“Your mother was not far out of the way in
her discipline,” said Mr. Stripe. “You should
have obeyed her.”

“Undoubtedly. She would have made a
drudge — a hard-working, melancholy man of
me. As it is, I am a miserable, merry fellow,
leading a joyous, abominable life; hating the
world; hated by the world in a perfect Christian
manner.”

The vagabond heaved a deep sigh, and regarded
his companion earnestly.

“You never thought of repairing the evils
wrought by your father, I suppose?” said he.
“You never conceived the ambition to undo
the wrong he has done, instead of following his
example?”

“Ha! ha! you talk more like a professor of
moral philosophy than a broken-down gambler!”
cried the youth. “But you see, these
evils are not so easily repaired — that wrong
cannot be easily undone. I confess I sometimes

felt such an ambition, but every thing
was against me. I was a mere boy, and gave
up the struggle like a boy. Had I been
encouraged by my mother, instead of driven
by her, — had there been the least effort
made to render labor attractive, — you would
not now behold me such a worthy son of my
father. Now it is too late; reform is out of
the question. I have placed myself within the
influence of the whirlpool — I have been drawn
into it — there is no escape. Many thanks for
your kind suggestions; but I can't say I
care to hear any more of them. So luck to
you, old fellow! But I must be permitted to
give you a token of regard, as a younger
member of the mad profession to which you
once belonged.” And the youth threw a heavy
purse upon the table. “Not a word — I can
well spare it, and I am sure you need it. If
my success continues, I intend establishing a
gambler's fund, to be called `A Society for the
Amelioration of the Condition of Decayed
Gamesters,' or something of the sort. Meanwhile,
I shall always be happy to assist worthy
members like yourself.”

“Hold!” cried the vagabond; “I can't take
your money!”

And with a trembling hand he lifted the
well-filled purse, extending it towards the
young gamester.

“Pshaw!” exclaimed the youth, turning his
back, and walking towards the door; “don't
begin to be scrupulous in your old age. This
isn't the first time you have received money —
of those, too, who gave not so willingly as I.”

“True, I have; and I have committed
worse crimes; but something tells me that I
must not accept this. I may beg of the next
man; but from you I can take nothing. No,
not from you.”

“By Jove! you are an odd customer!” cried
the youth, ill concealing the sympathy the
strange, earnest manner of the vagabond
awakened in his bosom. “But I swear you
shall take something from me; for you are a
fine fellow at heart, I know. Nay, nay; keep
the purse. I'll see you again. Luck to you,
old boy!”

The door opened and closed. The vagabond
started to his feet; his wild companion was
gone. Striking his brow, the wretched man
sank upon a chair, and the purse, slipping from

his fingers, fell upon the table with a dull,
chinking sound.

“Good God!” he muttered through his
teeth, “that he should offer me money! O
fool! fool! There is nothing left me now!”

His features writhed in the agony of remorse
and self-hatred. His head fell heavily upon
his breast, and his arms hung motionless by his
side. For a long time he stirred not, except
when, at intervals, a bursting sob heaved his
bosom. A terrible struggle was torturing his
remorseful brain. At length it was over. He
arose, and stood firmly erect. His ashy lips
were compressed with the expression of some
fearful resolution, his brow was calm, and his
eyes were lighted with a new fire. With a
quick movement he gathered up the purse with
his fingers, and concealed it on his person;
then, with firm and rapid strides, he left the
scene of his interview with the gambler.