VIII A TRIAL OF SKILL

“There’s wan thing about Brownsville,” said Stumpy, “that saves the place from bein’ like wan o’ them asylums f’r the feeble-moinded, where the min sews patchwork, an’ the women shmokes pipes.”

“Wot’s eatin’ you?” asked Sam, the bartender.

Sam had local pride which he held to be justified by his own prosperity, and he was apt to be gruff when any one spoke disparagingly of Brownsville. The two men had sat together on the levee, sociably silent for half an hour, when the spirit moved Stumpy to speech.

Having spoken, however, he sat as one relieved in his mind, and was in no haste for further conversation. It was therefore some minutes before he replied, but at length he said:

“Sure, it puts me in moind o’ the great famine in Ireland me father used to tell of. Ye’d go for a week or a day wid sorry a bit t’ ate of annything at all, at all, an’ thin ye’d get maybe a pratie or a crusht, that’d kape ye goin’ a bit longer.

“There do be toimes in Brownsville that’d make ye think ye was dead an’ buried. Sure, the still o’ the nights is worse nor a thundershtorm for kapin’ a man awake, an’ the days is worse.

“An’ thin, whin ye do be goin’ melancholy mad wid the monny-tony o’ loife that isn’t livin’ at all, at all, but blue-mouldin’, somethin’ or other’ll hit ye, loike a fri’ndly blackthorn at Donnybrook, an’ ye’ll sit up an’ take notice. Mostly it’s Long Mike, but times it’ll be something else.

“An’ whin it do come, ye’ll think for a time that Brownsville is wan o’ the hid cinters of all th’ excitement on the Mississippi River. Maybe it’s a bit o’ gun-play it’ll be, wid a tin-horn gambler, loike th’ toime th’ one-eyed man cashed in, or belike it’ll be somethin’ or other wid Gallagher, but annyhow it shtirs things oop. This toime Oi do be thinkin’ it’ll be Hinnissy.”

“An’ why would it be Hennessy?” asked Sam.

“It wouldn’t on’y f’r Gallagher,” said Stumpy, “but thim two is like a hammer an’ a shtick o’ dynamite, or a mule’s hind leg an’ a sthraw. Av they do be kept apart, there’s no great harrum, but av ye bring thim together, belike there’s friction.”

“They was playin’ cards sociable enough last night,” observed Sam.

“That’s it,” replied Stumpy. “When thim two gets sociable, ye wants to kape yer eye open. Whin it’s a cussin’ f’m Gallagher, him bein’ foreman, or a kick f’m Hinnissy, that bein’ his disposition, they’re good friends. Sure they’re both of thim Oirish. But whin they get fri’ndly, they do be two naturalized citizens, wid Oirish blood an’ Mississippi River manners, an’ God knows.”

“Did you hear anything?”

“No, but I shmelt it, an’ this mornin’ the shmell is still in th’ air. My dog Peter has the scint of it, shtrong. He kim out wid me for a walk, an’ whin we passed Gallagher’s, he sniffed around loike he do for a rat. An’ he turned back an’ lay down in the road near Hinnissy’s place. Sure he knows more o’ some things nor a Christian.”

“Then you think there’ll be trouble?” asked Sam, somewhat jeeringly.

“Sure, Oi don’t think it,” said Stumpy, “but Oi do be tellin’ ye Oi shmell it.”

What further discussion there might have been was cut off at this point by the appearance of two or three citizens in the distance. They were making their way leisurely toward Sam’s place of business, and he, foreseeing a demand for his services, went indoors.

As if the appearance of the first comers on the street had been a signal, others presently appeared, and in a few minutes Brownsville had put on as much of an appearance of activity as was usual when there was no boat expected.

The first to arrive at the barroom was Long Mike himself, and he, looking around, conveyed with his eyes, in some almost imperceptible fashion, an invitation to Stumpy to step inside. Accordingly that gentleman arose, though without unseemly haste, and made one of a small group that presently lined up in front of Sam’s bar.

Two of the group were Gallagher and Hennessy, and Stumpy was not the only one who noted with rising spirits the exaggerated politeness with which they spoke to each other. There had been nothing of importance doing in the community since navigation had closed at the beginning of winter, and as it was now almost warm weather again—warm enough, at all events, to tempt the people out-of-doors—the prospect of some excitement was exhilarating.

“It’s a very good game you play at shtud-poker, Mr. Gallagher,” said Hennessy, when the drink was swallowed and the pipes were all relighted.

“You do me proud, Mr. Hinnissy,” replied Gallagher, with equal courtesy, “an’ ye play very well yersilf, barrin’ th’ matther o’ poor luck now an’ ag’in.”

“Oi was thinkin’ that same lasht night,” said the other. “Av the cyards hadn’t run till ye the way they did, belike ye’d not have won the money ye did.”

“Thot moight be, an’ again maybe not,” said Gallagher, still polite, but with a tone of satisfaction in his voice that Hennessy detected.

“Ye know,” he said, “they run different, different toimes.”

“They do,” said Gallagher. “An’ that’s when the shkill comes in. Now yer own game is wan that wins, av ye have the cyards, but ye lose when ye haven’t.”

“An’ don’t ye find that same to be yer own experience?” asked Hennessy.

“Oi do not,” said Gallagher. “Whin Oi haven’t the cyards, Oi never bet. It’s the wan thing ye have to l’arn about the game.”

The matter of seven dollars that Hennessy had lost the night before was still rankling, and this intimation that it was his lack of ability as a player that caused him to lose was hard to bear. He commanded himself with a visible effort and merely said:

“Maybe ye’d loike to exercise yer shkill some more the marnin’, Oi don’ know.”

“Well,” said Gallagher, “ye may have yer revenge an yer lukkin’ for it.” And the game was on.

There was some talk as they took their seats at the table about some of the others joining in, but Hennessy declared that he much preferred to play with Gallagher alone, and his wish was respected. They made it a ten-dollar freeze-out, and the others in the room gathered around to see the play.

For a considerable time it seemed as if Gallagher’s boasting had some foundation in fact, for he played cautiously, and several times abandoned the hand when he had one or even two good cards showing, evidently believing that he was beaten by the other’s buried card, but after he had got well ahead, Hennessy began to get good hands.

A pair of tens, back to back, he played cunningly, letting his opponent do the betting until the last card was dealt, when Gallagher bet a dollar on two eights in sight. Then he raised it three dollars, and, as this looked like a bluff, Gallagher called.

A similar play when he really held a straight with the middle card buried, against two pairs, netted him as much more, and the lucky chance of a third ace for the last card against three queens in sight enabled him to raise back to the extent of Gallagher’s pile after he had passed the bet and Gallagher had shown his confidence in his queens.

He had won the freeze-out and was calmly tolerant when Gallagher said, with something of a sneer:

“Yez can all see now what I said. Whin Mr. Hennessy has the cyards he can play as well as the next.”

“Oi can,” he replied, loftily. “An’ Oi can do betther nor that.”

“An’ how?” demanded Gallagher.

“Oi can lick the shtuffin’ out of anny man that can’t lick the shtuffin’ out o’ me.”

“An’ is it me ye mane?” asked Gallagher, almost choking.

“It is.”

“It is foight ye mane?”

“It is.”

“Av ye’ll shtep outside,” said Gallagher, “Oi’ll shtand ye on yer head, an’ dhrive yer body so far down in the mud they’ll be usin’ ye for an artooshun well.”

“Ye may, thin,” said Hennessy, and two minutes later they were out on the levee, with their coats off, locked in a grip that seemed unbreakable.

“What did Oi say till ye the marnin’,” said Stumpy, as he and Sam stood watching the proceedings in keenest delight, together with nearly the entire male population of Brownsville. “There do be things happens here sometimes.”

The excitement was so great, in fact, that for the moment no one noticed a bareheaded woman that came running up the street, almost breathless, but shouting as loudly as she could. When her voice reached the crowd, they perceived that it was the voice of Mrs. Hennessy, and there was an imperative tone in it that arrested even the attention of the two who were fighting.

“Mike!” she screamed, “Mike! darlint. The babby fell down in the cistern, an’ Missus Gallagher climbed down wid a rope, an’ we pulled the babby up, an’ she’s shtuck at the bottom. Sure ye’ll coom an’ pull her up. Hurry, for the love o’ God.”

They did hurry, all of them, and when Mrs. Gallagher was rescued, as she speedily was, Hennessy turned to his foe:

“Oi’ll not foight you this day, Gallagher, but you’ll dhrink wid me for the babby your good woman saved. An’ so,” he added, “will the whole o’ Brownsville this day.”

But while they drank, Stumpy remarked: “Sure it’s almost a pity they couldn’t ha’ finished the shindy. It would ha’ been worth seein’.”