V STUMPY’S DILEMMA

The only thing stirring on the levee at Brownsville on Sunday morning, usually, was a small dog belonging to Stumpy. It was of record that when Stumpy arrived at Brownsville with his dog Peter, bringing their entire earthly possessions wrapped in a large red handkerchief, Peter came across the gangplank first, being in hot pursuit of a rat. The rat escaped, finding its way into a crevice near the edge of the water, and the most of Peter’s spare time for the two years that had elapsed since then had been spent near that crevice. No sign of the rat had ever been discovered, but Peter’s faith was abiding.

It was possibly characteristic of the breed of Peter, which was considered in Brownsville to be some sort of terrier—and it was certainly characteristic of Peter that he did not sit down by the crevice to watch for that rat, but ran back and forth continually, barking, meanwhile, with cheerful disregard of the effort involved. He did not wag his tail, being possessed of a totally insufficient amount of tail to be wagged. “Sure his tail was never cut off,” Stumpy used to say, “it was drove in.” But he wagged the entire hinder portion of his body, as he ran, with an enthusiasm that frequently sent two of his legs high in the air.

While he was engaged in this fashion one otherwise peaceful Sabbath day, his master appeared in view, and the two were soon in conversation.

“Thim two spalpeens that kim off the boat last night, I’m thinkin’, is goin’ to do up the town, I do’ know,” said Stumpy, whose habit it was to discuss matters with Peter when he found them too difficult to understand easily.

Peter looked at him anxiously, but finding that Stumpy had paused for reflection, he barked once, and waited.

“That’s just it,” said Stumpy, eagerly. “The divil’s own cousin cudn’t tell if they was Mormon missionaries or retail grocers on a holiday trip. If it was down the river, now, they’d be cotton factors maybe, but whhat’d a cotton factor be doin’ in Brownsville, I do’ know. An’ the drink! Glory be, but they’re divils for drink. An’ Long Mike on’y a week after the last wan.”

This last remark called for no explanation in Brownsville, where Long Mike’s sprees were events in municipal history. Peter whined lugubriously.

“An’ it’s right ye are, Peter,” said Stumpy. “If he starts in again now there’ll be an end. Didn’t he wipe out Gallagher’s place from door to door, wid the glory o’ drink in him, two weeks ago? It’s none too peaceful at the best, that Brownsville is, but wid him drunk it’s hell. An’ it’s drunk he’ll be again if thim two strangers stays. An’ I do be thinkin’, Peter, that if he’s drunk again afore the change o’ the moon, he’ll sober up in the life everlastin’.”

At this Peter howled long and loud, and Stumpy lapsed into silence.

To them presently appeared Sam. The exigencies of business required Sam’s presence in the barroom, as a usual thing, regardless of the day, or time of day, he being the only dispenser of potable necessities in Brownsville, but the stress of Saturday nights was commonly followed by an interval of calm on Sabbath mornings, and his custom was to go abroad for air on those occasions.

Seating himself on a piece of driftwood, he chewed the end of his cigar for a time, and then observed: “It was a large night.”

“It was,” said Stumpy. “Is thim two strangers stayin’ here long, I don’t know?” Stumpy’s brogue defied spelling.

“They’ll be dead if they do,” said Sam. “I’ve saw wild men afore, but I never seen two men try to pull up the Mississippi River by the roots.”

“If it was thim ’ud die,” said Stumpy, gloomily. “An’ Hennessy. We c’d do widout Hennessy an’ wan or more others. But I do be thinkin’ Long Mike is off again.”

“Looks like it,” said Sam.

Just then the report of a pistol-shot rang

“JUST THEN THE REPORT OF A PISTOL-SHOT RANG OUT.”

out, and Peter leaped in the air. He was not hurt, but the bullet had struck between his fore paws, and he was frightened.

Stumpy turned like a flash. The two strangers were approaching, laughing heartily, and one of them was about to shoot again. Stumpy was a small man, probably a foot shorter than either of the newcomers, but his hair was very red. He sprang to his feet.

“That’s my dog,” he said, pulling off his coat, and the man who was poising his revolver lowered it.

“No offence, friend,” he said, pleasantly. “I just wanted to see the dog dance.”

“Dance, is it?” shouted Stumpy, in a fine rage. “That dog’s no circus. If it’s dancin’ ye want, I’ll dance, but it’s on your ugly face it’ll be, wid you on the flat o’ your back.” And he squared off in excellent style.

“There, there,” said the big man, soothingly, “I’ll not fight you, and I’ll not bother your dog, if it’s yours. Come and have a drink.”

It was not easy to placate the little Irishman, but the two strangers finally accomplished it, and the entire party went over to the barroom. Peter, however, refused to enter the place, and showed his teeth viciously when the sportive pistol-player, whose name was Carruthers, offered to pat his head by way of apology.

As the day wore on, the male population of Brownsville, one by one, appeared in the barroom, and Carruthers and his mate, Hopper, played the part of hosts with great assiduity, so that the general condition of hilarity that had prevailed on Saturday night, but which had been greatly modified in the early morning hours, was fully reëstablished before nightfall.

The two men told about themselves without reserve, and there seemed to be no reason to doubt their story. They were sports, they said, frankly, it being fully understood that the word sport was a mere euphemism for professional gambler, and, having “made a killing” in La Crosse a few days before, they were enjoying a trip down the river with the ultimate purpose of getting into a big game at Vicksburg or New Orleans. Things being too slow to suit them on the boat on which they started, they had stopped off at the first landing-place to wait for another. Being thus in Brownsville, they proposed to enjoy themselves as heartily as possible, so what was the matter with all hands having another drink?

Whatever latent prejudice there was in the minds of Stumpy and one or two others who recognized an element of peril in the situation, was of little force against the popular enthusiasm the two strangers evoked by their liberality. Being men of seemingly unlimited capacity themselves, they soon discovered that Brownsville had also a few mighty drinkers, and, while now and again some less gifted man dropped out of the bout and made his uncertain way to some hiding-place, there were others on whom even Sam’s brands of red liquors had no appreciable effect.

Long Mike, indeed, seemed in his element. Glass for glass with anybody and everybody he tossed off his tipple as if it were filtered water, and his eye grew brighter, his hand steadier, and his tongue more nimble with each potation, so that only those who knew the awful cumulative effect drink had on him when his limit was actually reached, could realize that the commercial standing of Brownsville was at stake, for without Long Mike there was no head to the community, and no prospect of carrying on any business of importance. Therefore Stumpy—and others—had misgivings.

Not all the boats that ply the Mississippi stop at Brownsville, and the intervals at which some do stop are uncertain, so that Carruthers and Hopper had no means of calculating the length of their stay. It did not appear to trouble them much, but toward evening, no boat having appeared, and none being expected that night, Carruthers remarked, casually, that he could wish for a little excitement.

“Your liquor is all right,” he said, “and your society here is pleasant enough to suit anybody, but don’t you ever do anything in Brownsville?”

“We had a cock-fight here last month,” said Hennessy, “but there’s only one cock in town now. That was Gallagher’s afore Gallagher lit out, but even if he was to come home there’s no way o’ fightin’ one cock. That is, there’s no way I know on, ’thouten you put him front of a lookin’-glass,” he added, with a foolish laugh that no one echoed.

“Don’t nobody ever play poker here?” asked Hopper.

“I knowed it,” said Stumpy, under his breath, to Sam, who nodded understandingly.

People did play poker in Brownsville, quite a number of them, but they had a wholesome respect for travelling sports, realizing that the domestic variety of the game was by no means up to the standard established on the boats by gentlemen who made a business of playing. Liquor, however, played the mischief with Long Mike’s bump of caution, and he was fond of poker anyhow.

It turned out as Stumpy feared, and as Hopper expressed his disdain of a limit game, and nobody else was strong enough to put up a hundred dollars, Long Mike was presently engaged in playing table stakes with the two sports, each of the three having produced that sum.

“It’s not the hundred’ll break him,” said Stumpy, while Sam was getting the chips and cards, “but he’ll buy and buy, by and by, till the divil himself couldn’t save him.”

And this was the prevailing opinion among the score or more of men who clustered around to watch the game. No man, however, cared to raise his voice in protest. It would hardly have been done in any case, for a wholesome respect obtains on the Mississippi River for the right of the individual to go to the devil in his own chosen way, but, in the case of Long Mike, there was an additional feeling that he would make it extremely uncomfortable for any one who might presume to remonstrate with him for anything.

The game was not, at first, a notable one. No particularly sensational play marked the loss of Long Mike’s first hundred, though it went pretty fast, and with the second hundred he managed to secure some good pots, so that he ran up, almost even, for a few moments. But a series of losses reduced his pile again to less than forty dollars, when he caught a flush against Hopper’s full house, and called on Sam for two hundred more in chips.

It was evident, then, that he had the fever, and Stumpy groaned in spirit. There was no telling what the end would be, but he felt that it was among the possibilities for Long Mike to ruin himself in an hour or two, and his ruin would be disastrous to more than one in the room.

Suddenly he saw something which set his brain in a whirl. If he could have been positive and could have given proof, he would have declared that he saw Hopper deal himself a card from the bottom of the deck. He knew, however, what the accusation of cheating would mean, and he hesitated. Possibly he might have been mistaken, he thought, and anyhow it would be his word against one other’s. It was altogether uncertain what the result would be.

He watched the game, however, even more keenly than before, determined to speak, regardless of consequences, if he should see anything he was sure of. What he did not notice was that Carruthers had seen the gasp of astonishment that he had himself been unconscious of, and was watching him carefully. He stood opposite where Carruthers sat.

Presently there came a jack-pot that Hopper opened for five dollars. Carruthers passed, but did not immediately throw his cards on the table. Long Mike raised it ten dollars, it being his deal. Hopper came back at him with ten more, and Long Mike stayed.

Hopper called for two cards, and, as he did so, Stumpy distinctly saw Carruthers show Hopper his hand as he threw it on the table in the discard. One of the five was an ace, and Stumpy saw it.

Watching Hopper as he moved to pick up the cards dealt to him in the draw, he saw further that Hopper took one of them and one from the discarded pile. It was deftly done, but he was certain this time.

Long Mike stood pat, and when Hopper pushed his whole pile forward, Long Mike called him for all he had in front of him, a hundred and odd dollars. Then he showed a pat straight and Hopper showed four aces.

“Hold on!” shouted Stumpy. “There’s foul play here. That—” and then he paused.

Every man in the room was looking at him, and he was the only one who saw the muzzle of Carruther’s pistol just above the edge of the table. It was pointed directly at him, and the barrel looked to him as large around as a nail-keg.

It was not necessary to explain to him that Carruthers had the drop on him. Moreover, he knew that if he tried to finish his sentence he would be shot before he got the words out. It was small wonder he paused.

Nobody spoke for a moment, Stumpy for the excellent reason just stated, and the others because of their surprise. Then Carruthers said: “Evidently the gentleman never saw four aces held before. Is that what you meant when you spoke of foul play?”

Still all eyes were on Stumpy. No one else had seen the revolver, but he knew that on his answer depended the question whether Carruthers should shoot or not. Drops of sweat came out on his forehead. He drew a long breath.

Then he saw something else, and he answered Carruthers curiously.

“Yes-s-s,” he said, prolonging the word into a curious hiss which he knew that Peter understood.

At the instant that Carruthers, with an evil smile, was relaxing his aim, a small, brown dog landed on his shoulders and fastened his teeth in his throat.

No man was ever able to recall all the details of the mix-up that followed, but after two badly damaged strangers had departed from Brownsville on the next boat, Stumpy observed to Sam: “Sure, it would ha’ been betther to kill thim, I don’t know.”