meelodramy than said "Uncle Tom's Cabin," I never yet pays four white chips to see; an' I'm from Illinoy, an' was a Abe Lincoln man an' a rank black ab'litionist besides.'
"'Seein' I once owns a couple of hundred Guineas,' says Enright, 'my feelin's ag'in slavery never mounts so high as Tutt's; but as for eloocidatin' them dog-songs that's set your nerves to millin', Boggs, it's easy.Whenever you-all hears a dog mournin' an' howlin'
like them hound-pups does last night, that's because he smells somethin' he can't locate; an' nacherally he's agitated tharby.Now yereafter, never let your imagination pull its picket-pin that a-way, an' go to cavortin' 'round permiscus--don't go romancin' off on any of them ghost round-ups you're addicted to.Thar's the whole groosome myst'ry laid b'ar; them pups merely smells things they can't locate, an' it frets 'em.'
"'None the less,' remarks Cherokee Hall, 'while I reckons Enright gives us the c'rrect line on dogs that gets audible that a-way, an'
onravels them howls in all their meanin's, I confesses I'm a heap like Boggs about signs.Mebby, as I says prior, it's because I'm a kyard sharp an' allers faces my footure over a faro layout.Anyhow, signs an' omens presses on me.For one thing, I'm sooperstitious about makin' of onyoosal arrangements to protect my play.I never yet tries to cinch a play, an' never notes anybody else try, but we-all quits loser.It ain't no use.Every gent, from his cradle to his coffin, has got to take a gambler's chance.Life is like stud-poker;an' Destiny's got an ace buried every time.It either out-lucks you or out-plays you whenever it's so inclined; an' it seems allers so inclined, Destiny does, jest as you're flatterin' yourse'f you've got a shore thing.A gent's bound to play fa'r with Destiny; he can put a bet down on that.You can't hold six kyards; you can't deal double; you can't play no cold hands; you can't bluff Destiny.All you-all can do is humbly an' meekly pick up the five kyards that belongs to you, an' in a sperit of thankfulness an' praise, an'
frankly admittin' that you're lucky to be allowed to play at all, do your lowly best tharwith.Ain't I right, Doc?' An' Cherokee, lookin'
warm an' earnest, turns to Peets.
"'As absolootely right as the sights of a Sharp's rifle,' says Peets; 'an', while I'm not yere to render you giddy with encomiums, Cherokee, you shore ought to expand them sentiments into a lecture.'
"'Jest to 'llustrate my meanin',' resooms Cherokee, 'let me onbosom myse'f as to what happens a party back in Posey County, Injeanny.
I'm plumb callow at the time, bein' only about the size an' valyoo of a pa'r of fives.but I'm plenty impressed by them events I'm about to recount, an' the mem'ry is fresh enough for yesterday.But to come flutterin' from my perch.Thar's a sport who makes his home-camp in that hamlet which fosters my infancy; that is, he's thar about six months in the year.His long suit is playin' the ponies--he can beat the races; an' where he falls down is faro-bank, which never fails to freeze to all the coin he changes in.That's the palin' off his fence; faro-bank.He never does triumph at it onct.
An' still the device has him locoed; he can't let it alone.Jest so shorely as he finds a faro-bank, jest so shorely he sets in ag'inst it, an' jest so shorely he ain't got a tail-feather left when he quits.
"'The races is over for the season.It's the first snow of winter on the ground, when our sport comes trailin' in to make his annyooal camp.He's about six thousand dollars strong; for, as I states, he picks bosses right.An' he's been thinkin', too; this yere sport I'm relatin' of.He's been roominatin' the baleful effects of faro-bank in his speshul case.He knows it's no use him sayin' he wont buck the game.This person's made them vows before.An' they holds him about like cobwebs holds a cow--lasts about as long as a drink of whiskey.He's bound, in the very irreg'larities of his nacher, an'
the deadly idleness of a winter with nothin' to do but think, to go to transactin' faro-bank.An', as a high-steppin' patriot once says, "jedgin' of the footure by the past," our sport's goin' to be skinned alive--chewed up--compared to him a Digger Injun will loom up in the matter of finance like a Steve Girard.An' he knows it.
Wherefore this yere crafty sharp starts in to cinch a play; starts in to defy fate, an' rope up an' brand the footure, for at least six months to come.An', jest as I argues, Destiny accepts the challenge of this vainglorious sharp; acccepts it with a grin.Yere's what he does, an' yere's what comes to pass."'Our wise, forethoughtful sport seeks out the robber who keeps the tavern."The ponies will be back in May," says he, "an' I'm perishin' of cur'osity to know how much money you demands to feed an' sleep me till then." The tavern man names the bundle, an' the thoughtful sport makes good.Then he stiffens the barkeep for about ten drinks a day ontil the advent of them ponies.Followin' which, he searches out a tailor shop an'
accoomulates a libh'ral trousseau, an' has it packed down to the tavern an' filed away in his rooms."Thar!" he says; "which Ireckons now I'm strong enough to go the distance.Not even a brace game of faro-bank, nor yet any sim'lar dead-fall, prevails ag'inst me.I flatters myse'f; for onct in a way, I've organized my destinies so that, for six months at least, they've done got to run troo." "'It's after supper; our sport, who's been so busy all day treein' the chances an' runnin' of 'em out on a limb, is loafin'
about the bar.O'casionally he congratulates himse'f on havin' a long head like a mule; then ag'in he oneasily reverts to the faro game that's tossin' an' heavin' with all sorts o' good an' bad luck jest across the street.
"'At first he's plumb inflex'ble that a-way, an' is goin' to deny himse'f to faro-bank.He waxes quite heroic about it, our sport does; a condition of sperits, by the way, I've allers noticed is prone to immejetly precede complete c'llapse.
