The Slave of the Mine

Jack Harkaway in 'Frisco

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CHAPTER I.

THE GAMBLING-HOUSE.
"I rather like this game!"
"Well, I should smile if you didn't. Luck's dead sot in for you now, you can bet."
"Perhaps," said the first speaker; "but I don't propose to follow it up."
"What?"
The second speaker sprang from his chair in amazement.
"No. I flatter myself I know when to stop. I have played at Baden and Monaco, in the clubs of London and the hells of Paris, as well as the gambling saloons of the West, and I'm not to be picked up for a flat."
"That's sure; but look at here; as sure as my name is Dan Markham, and I'm known as a profesh at gambling from here to Cheyenne and Virginia City, and lettin' alone Omaha, you're wrong."
"Why?"
"When you've got a run of luck, play it for all it is worth."
"You think so?"
"My friend, fortune is within your grasp. Play on the ace and copper the jack, I tell you," replied Dan Markham.
"Thank you. I don't want any one to dictate to me."
With this quiet answer the first speaker piled up his checks and received an equally large pile of gold twenty-dollar pieces, which he placed in an inside pocket of his coat. Then he laughed harshly.
"I don't know why I do this sort of thing," he remarked. "It isn't because I want the money."
"I'll tell you," replied the gambler.
The lucky player rose from his seat and the game went on, there being a dozen or more men present who were intent upon it.
The game was faro.
Slowly and solemnly the dealer took the cards out of the box, and with equal solemnity the players moved their checks as their fancy dictated.
The first speaker was a man of a decided English cast of countenance, and the profusion of side whiskers which he wore strengthened his Britannic look.
He was well dressed, handsome, though somewhat haggard, as if he suffered from want of sleep, or had some cankering care gnawing at his heart.
A gold ring, set with turquoise and diamonds, sparkled on his finger, and his watch chain was heavy and massive. The gambler was probably forty years of age, which was ten or twelve more than his companion, and his face bore traces of drink and dissipation; but there was a shrewd, good-natured twinkle in his eye which showed that he was not a bad-natured man in the main. In reality, Dan Markham was known all over the Pacific Slope as a good fellow.
Retiring to the lower end of the room, the first speaker accepted a glass of wine which was handed him by a negro waiter who attended on the supper-table.
"You were saying, Mr.—er—Mr.——" he began.
"Markham," replied that individual.
"Ah, yes! Thank you! Well, you were observing——"
"Just this: I know why a man plays, even though he's well fixed and has got heaps of shug."
"Do you?"
"Yes, Mr.—er—Mr." continued Markham, imitating his companion's tone in rather a mocking manner.
"Smith. Call me Smith."
"All right, Smith; you play because you want the excitement. That's the secret of it. You've got no home."
"That's true."
"No wife?"
"No."
"Exactly. If a man's got a home, and the comforts, and the young ones, and in fact all that the word implies, he don't want to go to a gambling-saloon. No, sir. It's fellows like you and me that buck the tiger."
The person who had designated himself as Mr. Smith smiled.
"You are an observer of human nature?" he said.
"Well, I guess so. Pete!"
"Yes, sah!" replied the negro.
"Give me some of that wine. Darn your black skin, what do I keep you for?"
"You don't keep me, sah!" replied the negro.
"Don't I, by gosh? It's me, and fellows like me, that keep this saloon a-going, and that keeps you."
Pete made no reply, but opened a new bottle and handed the gambler a glass of the sparkling wine.
"Going to play some more, stranger?" asked Dan.
"I may and I may not. As I feel at present I shall look on," replied Mr. Smith.

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