The Come-On/Chapter 4

OLLINGWOOD left the hotel and made his way toward the outskirts of Galena where, dodging mud-puddles gingerly, he finally arrived at a small shack of undressed and unpainted lumber. He opened the door without ceremony. Inside a man in shirt-sleeves sat playing solitaire. He was some years older than Collingwood. His clean-shaven face was thoughtful, studious, and very honest; his eyes were blue and frank as a child's: indeed their expression was almost wistful. As he played he made note of the recurring card combinations in a small note-book.

He nodded absently to Collingwood, and carefully placed a card and shifted a pile. The next deal exhausted the possibilities; he threw the cards into a heap.

"Well?" he queried.

"Why don't you get a new game?" rasped Collingwood impatiently. "Try building-blocks, or something hard."

The other snorted.

"You think Romally's Solitaire is easy! Do you know how many chances you have of solving it? Just one in seven thousand and forty-five."

"What a lead-pipe it would be to keep a bank on a game like that," Collingwood commented, recovering his good humor. "All right, Frank. Throw the whole pack in the discard for a few days. This is where you get busy."

"I'm glad of it," said the other. "When I came to Galena I didn't figure on living in a blasted packing-box, with a hunch of assorted mountain-rats for company. Any time I have to see rats I want some fun first, and these are too genuine. Besides, if you want to know it, I'm down to white chips."

"If you'd quit spoiling good paper trying to figure out a system to beat cinch games you'd have a roll you couldn't carry," observed Collingwood. "It beats by me why a smart man like you is sucker enough to hand his coin to a bunch of [gams]. But you'll do it till you die, Frapk Duprau.'

Duprau glanced guiltily at sheets of paper covered with intricate calculations lying on the bare pine table.

"Some day I'll just choke 'em to death," he said, with conviction. "I've made mistakes in calculation. I'll admit, and I got what was coming to me. This time I'm all right. I'm figuring out a system that's a sure winner. When I get it I'll let you in on it."

"After you've tried it and they've got to you for your roll again, come to me and I'll stake you a couple of hundred if I have it," said Collingwood. "You ought to have more sense. You know a game for a brace and a skin, and yet you skip to it with your little old tin dollars and feed them into the hopper. If it was on the square you couldn't win. You're dotty on systems that keep you poor. But it's your money, and there's more coming. Now, forget your infernal systems and listen to me."

For ten minutes he talked earnestly. At the end of that time Duprau- produced a safety ink-bottle and a bundle of stock-certificates. The latter were blank. He began to fill in names and signatures. The ink he used was peculiar: even as it flowed from the pen it lost it's brilliancy and turned a brownish black—the exact color of writing a year or more old.

Collingwood watched him in silence until the work was completed.

"It may take three or four days," he said. "As soon as the deal is closed wire me. Your train leaves in two hours. We'll meet you in Red Cloud."

"Till then, good-by," said Dupray, reaching for a sheet of paper, "Two hours till train-time, you say. I want to do a little figuring"

Collingwood snatched the paper away from him and gathering up the pack of cards shoved both in his pocket.

"No solitaire or figuring out's systems," he said firmly "You never know when to stop, and I want you out of town to-night. Do I have to see you to the train, or will you cut it out?"

Collingwood retraced his way through the mud and mounted to his room at the hotel. He fully expected to find Mortimer there, but to his disgust the room was empty. He searched the hotel immediately.

"That Bostonese guy?" said the bartender, in answer to his inquiry. "Yes, he was in here and I make him a Joey Brown. He licks it up and asks me where he can find a swift game. I tell him most anywheres, but he'll get skinned quicker at Carey's. Then he gives me the glassy glare and [fetches] the door in three takes." To Carey's went Collingwood, and there he found Mortimer bucking faro-bank. The Joey Brown on top of the champagne had done the business, for he was very drunk indeed. He had been allowed to win, but he was now losing, and with the fatuity of the loser he was increasing his bets.

Collingwood laid a hand on his shoulder. "How are you making it go?" he asked. For answer Mortimer swore thickly and put a fifty-dollar bill on the eight open. He lost again.

"If you've had enough fun for one night." said Collingwood. "I want you to come with me. I've got onto a good thing and I've made an appointment for you The man is waiting now."

"Let him wait!" cried Mortimer. "I'm going to break this game."

"Hang the game!" said Collingwood. "There's big money in sight if you come with me. Let the game go. on. You can come back and break it up to-morrow."

Beside the dealer stood Carey, the owner of the house, an old-time gambler with an unsavory reputation. Mortimer seemed a fairly plump pigeon to be plucked, and he resented Collingwood's interference.

"Stranger," he said, "your friend is backing his judgment his own way. He don't need to be night-herded. Let him alone."

Collingwood looked him straight in the eye; the gambler met his gaze squarely; they sized each other up.

"You mean well," said Collingwood coldly, "but I guess that lets you out." He turned to Mortimer. "Come along, old man."

But Mortimer would not come.

Carey's remark had had the desired effect.

"You lemme 'lone," he said thickly. "See you in mornin'."

But Collingwood for reasons of his own was not willing to allow him to lose more money to Carey. He adapted himself quickly to the situation.

"Guess I might as well make a night of it too, then," he said. "Let me in on the game."

He ordered a drink and watched Mortimer throw it down his throat with satisfaction. He pressed on him a particularly black and heavy cigar. Carey watched these tactics with a scowl. At the end of fifteen minutes, during which he had lost but moderately, Mortimer's head began to sag.

Two minutes after he fell sidewise from his chair and became unconscious.

Carey beckoned to two men. "Take him up-stairs and put him to bed," he ordered. Collingwood interposed.

"Hardly. He's going back to his hotel."

"Is he?" said Carey. "There's where you make a mistake. When a man gets full in my house I look after him."

"Nice benevolent custom, too," said Collingwood. "I'll save you the trouble this time. He's going with me."

Carey, his face impassive as ever, leaned forward.

"See here, stranger." he said, "you're just a little too positive in your views to stay popular. Without giving offense I'm telling you that I don't let a man I don't know handle a drunk with money in his clothes. And I don't know you."

"It sounds all right," retorted Collingwood. "My objection to leaving him here is just the opposite; I do know you."

The controversy was attracting attention. The lookout on his stool pinched out the end of a cigarette and dropped it on the floor, gently sliding his hand into his coat pocket. The game was suspended and clear spaces opened automatically behind both Carey and Collingwood. It was significant of the experience of the two that neither had raised his voice. Their tones were almost confidential, but cold as cut ice.

Carey's eyelids narrowed and drooped a little lower. Twenty years before—fifteen, ten, even—he would have shot as the last word left Collingwood's lips. But now a gun was to be employed only as a last resort; and he felt that he could not afford to gain much more notoriety, even in Galena.

"Stranger," he said in a level voice the more ominous by its absolute calm. "I wouldn't say no more things like that if I was you. They're apt to affect your plans for the future. Now here it is," he went on, dismissing the remark with a large wave of his slim hand. "If you're a friend of this man I'd rather you'd take care of him and save me the trouble; on the other hand, as you're a stranger I can't let you do it. It's up to you."

"Well, we needn't block business talking about it." said Collingwood, accepting the flag of truce thus held aloft. "Let me see you in private for a moment."

Later, J. Addison Mortimer entered his apartments at the Palace assisted by Collingwood and another man; incidentally, he was quite unaware of the fact and manner of his home-coming.