They parted on the sidewalk in front of the hotel, each going his own way and sending back a “Good luck!” over his shoulder to the others.
It would have appeared to the casual observer that Knowlton’s chance for freedom, if it depended on the success of this hare-brained, desperate scheme of Dougherty’s, was a slim one. But yet it was a chance.
There were five of them — they were anything but inexperienced — and they were at concert pitch. True knighthood finds its brightest glory when pitted against seemingly overwhelming odds; and though the ribbon of their lady fluttered not from their buttonholes, yet did they fight valiantly for her.
The hour of midnight found them — all five — reassembled at Dumain’s apartments on Twenty-first Street, in the room which, some two months previous, had seen the triumph of Knowlton and the treacherous blow of Sherman.
The room was not bare, as it had been then. In the center stood a table littered with books and magazines, above which a massive reading globe cast its circle of light downward, leaving the upper half of the room in darkness.
A piano stood in one corner; by the mantel a chess table with the pieces arranged, apparently, at the crisis of an unfinished game; and there were half a dozen easy chairs, of various shapes and sizes. Altogether, a very pleasant spot — Booth declared he was about persuaded to become a palmist himself.
Driscoll, who arrived last, entered on the stroke of twelve. He found the others waiting impatiently — for Dougherty had insisted that each man should keep the story of his success or failure to himself until all were present. Judging from the expression on their faces, there was little to tell.
The little Frenchman waved Driscoll to a chair on the other side of the table and seated himself on the piano stool. Booth threw down a book he had been pretending to read, and Jennings yawned ostentatiously. All looked expectantly at Dougherty as he pounded on the arm of his chair for attention.
“I guess it’s time to kill the cat,” said the ex-prizefighter gloomily. “For your benefit,” he turned to Driscoll, “we’ve held off on the dope. I will now tell the sad story of my life. Heaven knows I wish it was different. Maybe I was wrong, but we’ve only lost two hundred—”
“Come on, cut your mutton,” Driscoll interrupted.
Dougherty glared at him, sighed, and began:
“I hate to tell it. There’s not much to tell. At exactly four-fifteen this afternoon I took a seat at a table of five at Webster’s on Thirty-sixth Street and bought a stack of blues. For an hour I fed the kitty, then it began to come.
“I helped every pair I drew to. I couldn’t lose. At about seven o’clock I’d cashed in four hundred and had a stack about the size of the Flatiron Building in front of me.
“If I’ve ever played poker I played it then. But it began to turn. They wouldn’t come. I couldn’t get better than a pair, and they were never good enough. I boosted twice on a one-card draw to four pink ones, but couldn’t get the filler.
“I prayed for ’em and tore ’em up and tried to run away with one or two, but they called me. And then — I had four ladies topped by a little guy on his first pot!”
A universal groan came from the audience.
“That finished me. I fought back as hard as I could, but they rushed me off my feet. At a quarter past eleven I cashed in exactly fifty dollars. Here it is.”
There was complete silence as Dougherty held up five ten-dollar bills and sorrowfully returned them to his pocket. Then everybody began talking at once.
“Anyway, you kept your fifty.”
“It could have been worse.”
“Zat pokaire is zee devil of a game.”
“Come on — who’s next? Go on with the story!”
This last from Driscoll.
Dougherty motioned to the little Frenchman.
“Me?” said Dumain. “I am worse yet than Dougherty. I got nozzing. I lost zee fifty.”
“But how?”
“Zee race ponies,” answered Dumain, with a fling at the jargon. “I play nozzing but écarté, and there is not zat here. I had a good what you call eet teep for Peemlico. Zee fourth race — zee name of zee horse was Parcel-Post.”
“How did you play him?”
“Straight. To win. A friend of mine got a telegram from zee owner. It was certain he should win.”
“And I suppose he got the place?” asked Booth.
“What does zat mean?”
“It means he came in second.”
The little Frenchman shook his head sorrowfully.
“Oh, no. He came een last.”
There was a shout of laughter from the others, but it was soon stopped by Dougherty, who turned to Jennings with a gesture. He wanted to get the thing finished.
“I’m in the same class with Dumain,” said Jennings. “I tried your game, Dougherty, and I thought I was some poker player — but good night! They took my fifty so quick I didn’t have time to tell it good-by.”
“Where’d you go?”
“Pearly’s, on Sixth Avenue. I’ve sat in there once or twice before, and about six months ago I made a clean-up. But tonight — don’t make me talk about it.”
“We’re a bunch of boobs,” Dougherty groaned. “We’d better all go out in the morning and sell lead pencils. Your turn, Driscoll.”
But Driscoll said that he would prefer to follow Booth, and since Dougherty was not inclined to argue the matter, he turned to the typewriter salesman instead.
“I’m willing,” said that gentleman, “though my tale contains but little joy. Still, I guess we’re about even.
“It doesn’t matter exactly where I went. It’s downtown, and it’s in the rear of a two-by-four billiard hall. At any hour of any afternoon you may find there a number of gentlemen engaged in the ancient and honorable game of craps.
“I’ll spare you the details — at least, most of ’em. The game is a big one: there’s lots of real money there for the man that knows how to get it, and I figured it out that I was just about the man.
“I rolled the bones till my fingers ached and my knees were stiff, and my voice sounded like a Staten Island ferryboat in a fog — I have a little habit of talking to the ivories.
“Well, to cut it short, I played in all directions. At one time I had six hundred dollars. At another time I had fifteen dollars. At half past eleven tonight I had an even hundred, and it was time to go.
“I had the dice, and I decided on one more throw. My hundred — I played it all — was faded before I put it down, and I threw a natural — a seven. I stuck the two hundred in my pocket and said good night.”
“Well, we’ve got our two hundred and fifty back, anyway,” observed Jennings.
“And what good will that do?” growled Dougherty.
“You never can tell. Tomorrow’s another day.”
“It seems to me,” put in Driscoll, “that I remain to be heard from.”
“Shoot your head off,” said the ex-prizefighter, “and hurry up about it. This is awful!”
Driscoll blew his nose with care and deliberation, cleared his throat three times, and arose to his feet. There was something in his manner that caused the others to sit up straighter in their chairs with an air of expectancy. Noticing this flattering increase of attention, he smiled grandly and surveyed them with a leisurely eye.
“In the first place, gentlemen,” he began, “I wish to say that I do not regard myself as a genius, in any sense of the word. At poker I am worse than helpless. The race ponies, as Dumain calls them, are a mystery to me. Nor have I that deft and subtle touch required to roll dice successfully.”
There came a chorus of cries:
“Cut it!”
“Cheese the guff!”
“Talk sense!”
“Go on with the story!”
Driscoll waited for them to finish, then resumed calmly: