Alfred Grace - The Tale of Timber Town

The game was cut-throat euchre; one pound points. So that each of the three players contributed five pounds to the pool, which lay, gold, silver and bank-notes, in a tempting pile in the middle of the table.

“Left Bower, gen’lemen,” said the digger, placing the Knave of Clubs on the table.

“The deuce!” exclaimed the florid man.

“Can’t help you, partner,” said the man with the gold tooth, playing a low card.

“One trick,” said the digger, and he put down the Knave of Spades. “There’s his mate.”

“Right Bower, egad!” exclaimed the big man, who was evidently minus trumps.

The pasty-faced American played the Ace of Spades without saying a word.

“A blanky march!” cried the digger. “Look-a-here. How’s that for high?” and he placed on the table his three remaining cards – the King, Queen, and ten of trumps.

The other players showed their hands, which were full of red cards.

“Up, and one to spare,” exclaimed the digger, and took the pool.

About fifty pounds, divided into three unequal piles, lay on the table, and beside each player’s money stood a glass.

The florid man was shuffling the pack, and the other two were arranging their marking cards, when the door opened slowly, and the Father of Timber Town, followed by Cathro and Scarlett, entered the room.

“Well, well. Hard at it, eh, Garsett?” said the genial old gentleman, addressing himself to the Englishman. “Cut-throat euchre, by Jupiter! A ruinous game, Mr. Lichfield,” – to the man with the gold tooth – “but your opponent” – pointing with his stick to the digger – “seems to have all the luck. Look at his pile, Cathro. Your digger friend, eh, Scarlett? Look at his pile – the man’s winning.”

Scarlett nodded.

“He’s in luck again,” said Mr. Crewe; “in luck again, by all that’s mighty.”

The pool was made up, the cards were dealt, and the game continued. The nine of Hearts was the “turn-up” card.

“Pass,” said Lichfield.

“Then I order you up,” said the digger.

The burly Garsett drew a card from his “hand,” placed it under the pack, and said, “Go ahead. Hearts are trumps.”

The gentleman with the gold tooth played the King of Hearts, the digger a small trump, and Garsett his turn-up card.

“Ace of Spades,” said Lichfield, playing that card.

“Trump,” said the digger, as he put down the Queen of Hearts.

“Ace of trumps!” exclaimed Garsett, and took the trick.

“’Strewth!” cried the man from the “bush.” “But let’s see your next.”

“You haven’t a hope,” said the big gambler. “Two to one in notes we euchre you.”

“Done,” replied the digger, and he took a dirty one-pound bank-note from his heap of money.

“Most exciting,” exclaimed Mr. Crewe. “Quite spirited. The trumps must all be out, Cathro. Let us see what all this betting means.”

“Right Bower,” said the Englishman.

“Ho-ho! stranger,” the American cried. “I guess that pound belongs to Mr. Garsett.”

The digger put the Knave of Diamonds on the table, and handed the money to his florid antagonist.

“Your friend is set back two points, Scarlett.” It was Mr. Crewe that spoke. “England and America divide the pool.”

The digger looked up at the Father of Timber Town.

“If you gen’l’men wish to bet on the game, well and good,” he said, somewhat heatedly. “But if you’re not game to back your opinion, then keep your blanky mouths shut!”

Old Mr. Crewe was as nettled at this unlooked-for attack as if a battery of artillery had suddenly opened upon him.

“Heh! What?” he exclaimed. “You hear that, Cathro? Scarlett, you hear what your friend says? He wants to bet on the game, and that after being euchred and losing his pound to Mr. Garsett. Why, certainly, sir. I’ll back my opinion with the greatest pleasure. I’ll stake a five-pound note on it. You’ll lose this game, sir.”

“Done,” said the digger, and he counted out five sovereigns and placed them in a little heap by themselves.

Mr. Crewe had not come prepared for a “night out with the boys.” He found some silver in his pocket and two pounds in his sovereign-case.

“Hah! no matter,” he said. “Cathro, call the landlord. I take your bet, sir” – to the digger – “most certainly I take it, but one minute, give me one minute.”

“If there’s any difficulty in raising the cash,” said the digger, fingering his pile of money, “I won’t press the matter. I don’t want your blanky coin. I can easy do without it.”

The portly, rubicund landlord of the Lucky Digger entered the room.

“Ah, Townson,” said old Mr. Crewe, “good evening. We have a little bet on, Townson, a little bet between this gentleman from away back and myself, and I find I’m without the necessary cash. I want five pounds. I’ll give you my IOU.”

“Not at all,” replied the landlord, in a small high voice, totally surprising as issuing from such a portly person, “no IOU. I’ll gladly let you have twenty.”

“Five is all I want, Townson; and I expect to double it immediately, and then I shall be quite in funds.”

The landlord disappeared and came back with a small tray, on which was a bundle of bank-notes, some dirty, some clean and crisp. The Father of Timber Town counted the money. “Twenty pounds, Townson. Very well. You shall have it in the morning. Remind me, Cathro, that I owe Mr. Townson twenty pounds.”

The digger looked with surprise at the man who could conjure money from a publican.

“Who in Hades are you ?” he asked, as Mr. Crewe placed his £5 beside the digger’s. “D’you own the blanky pub?”

“No, he owns the town,” interposed Garsett.

The digger was upon his feet in a moment.

“Proud to meet you, mister,” he cried. “Glad to have this bet with you. I like to bet with a gen’l’man. Make it ten, sir, and I shall be happier still.”

“No, no,” replied the ancient Mr. Crewe. “You said five, and five it shall be. That’s quite enough for you to lose on one game.”

“You think so? That’s your blanky opinion? See that?” The digger pointed to his heap of money. “Where that come from there’s enough to buy your tin-pot town three times over.”

“Indeed,” said Mr. Crewe. “I’m glad to hear it. Bring your money, and you shall have the town.”

“Order, gentlemen, order,” cried the dough-faced man. “I guess we’re here to play cards, and cards we’re going to play. If you three gentlemen cann’t watch the game peaceably, it’ll be my disagreeable duty to fire you out – and that right smart.”

And just at this interesting moment entered Gentle Annie. She walked with little steps; propelling her plenitude silently but for the rustle of her silk skirt. In her hand she held a scented handkerchief, like any lady in a drawing-room; her hair, black at the roots and auburn at the ends, was wreathed, coil on coil, upon the top of her head; her face, which gave away all her secrets, was saucy, expressive of self-satisfaction, petulance, and vanity. And yet it was a handsome face; but it lacked mobility, the chin was too strong, the grey eyes wanted expression, though they were ever on the watch for an admiring glance.

“The angel has come to pour oil upon the troubled waters,” said the flabby, florid man, looking up from his cards at the splendid bar-maid.

Gentle Annie regarded the speaker boldly, smiled, and coloured with pleasure.

“To pour whisky down your throats,” she said, laughing – “that would be nearer the mark.”

“And produce a more pleasing effect,” said Garsett.

“Attend to the game,” said the American. “Spades are trumps.”