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By Passion Driven: A Story of a Wasted Life

Chapter VII

page 44

Chapter VII.

My nature is subdued to what it works in, like the dyer's hand.

We lost sight of Herman Lane on the evening he had so frequently visited the Post Office, at the door of a hotel in Rattray Street, the same in which he had, the week previously, given several I.O.U.'s for money won from him at cards. Let us now follow him, and learn the purpose of his visit.

Entering the hotel, he proceeded at once up a narrow, damp-looking staircase, and knocked at a door at the end of a dark landing—giving two distinct knocks on the top panel of the door, and one near the middle of the lower panel. The door was opened by one of the two men with whom we became acquainted on his former visit. This young man greeted Herman warmly with the remark— “Come along, Lane, old man, what has kept you so late? Let me introduce my friend Carter, from Christchurch.” Then, turning to “his friend Carter,” he explained that Herman was an acquaintance of his, who had lately come over from Melbourne. The only other occupant of the room, to whom Lane nodded as he entered, was the other of the two card-players. The three men had been engaged playing before Lane's entry, and it was agreed that they should finish the game then in progress. The table used was a long, narrow one, and Carter was seated at one end, page 45 the other two, on opposite sides near the other. Lane sat down nearly opposite Carter, in a position which enabled him to see every motion of his two opponents. Noticing this, one of them laid down his cards, and took a wellfilled cigar case from his pocket.

“Here, old man, have a weed, and smoke it by the fire while we are finishing.” Without the slightest hesitation, Lane took the cigar and changed his position, never once suspecting that the other had a strong motive for his removal.

The play then proceeded, during which Lane had an opportunity of scrutinizing the players—a process it might be interesting to follow.

Carter was a young man, of medium height, stout and strongly built, with florid complexion, a slight moustache and whiskers of dull brown, with hair of a somewhat lighter colour. He was, evidently, one accustomed to all the luxuries of life, and not required to work, either mind or body, for their procurement; a soft, sleepy look about his dark blue eyes, betokened that he had been lately indulging in drink; and a careless movement of his shoulders and head, indicated that he had not had the best of the game he was now pursuing. His companions were both dark; the smaller, known as Richard Mote, a slightly-built young man, of medium height, and somewhat gentlemanly appearance; his dark hair and moustache, prominent black eyes, and thick-set, well-formed lips, made him rather a good-looking youth. The other had something of the bulldog look about him, and the manner in which he dressed his beard somewhat intensified that appearance—his upper lip was set off with coarse hair, cropped short, while his chin was clean shaved, and supported on each side by a closely-cut whisker, which displayed the rough, but sickly, white skin beneath; a shaggy eyebrow, and deep-set, dark page 46 eye, formed no relief to the other features, while a wide nostril, and flattened bridge to his nose did not entitle that organ to be called “a thing of beauty.” These features, and a head of hair, short and bristly, surmounting a short, thick neck, formed the distinguishing features of John Samson's personal appearance. The manner of these two men as they sat playing formed a marked contrast to that of their opponent. Cool and sober, they watched every movement of his hands, or change of expression on his face, so that, with their experience, they held him at considerable disadvantage, without taking into account the other means to which they would resort if necessary to gain their ends.

Herman Lane watched the play with much interest, but from where he sat was not able to see all the movements of the different players.

On the table stood a decanter, and two or three bottles. The glasses of the different players told distinctive tales; that of Carter had just been re-filled by Mote from the decanter for the fourth or fifth time; those of his companion and himself were entirely guiltless of having contained any of the same liquor, and still held more than half of their first supply.

A glass was filled and handed to Lane, he tasted the contents, and laid down the glass on the table near Mote, the latter quietly, and apparently in an abstracted manner, moved it close to Carter's glass. He was angling for, and playing with, only one fish then, and an increase of bait might not prove ineffective. The play proceeded for some minutes in silence. Carter was all excitement, he had lost repeatedly; this time, however, owing to the bad play of Mote, he was accorded a different fortune, and some encouragement to continue the game.

When the hands had been played out, Samson turned to page 47 Lane, “Come on, Lane, old man, join in, and show your mettle.”

No second request was necessary, and Herman took his seat at the table opposite Carter. The play was then continued for some time without remark; but what need is there to follow its course. Lane and Carter were against the other two players. Whether it was due to superior play, better fortune in the cards held, or to a pre-arranged code of signals, the inevitable result followed—that the less-experienced speedily became indebted to the others in no small sum. This result was not brought about by a continual run of winning on the part of Mote and his companion. At first, luck seemed to favour their opponents, until they had become thoroughly engrossed in the game, and were prepared to continue it to any extent; then their fortune changed, and the others, taking full advantage of every chance, soon had them entirely at their mercy. Meanwhile they had been very liberal in supplying drink, and almost imperceptibly Lane had drunk glass after glass, until he became quite excited, and, playing recklessly, increased the stakes far beyond the dictates of prudence. At last the final loss came. Carter and he played unsuccessfully hands which seemed to them a certainty of winning.

“Damn it all!” cried the former, excitedly; “I won't play any more; you fellows play too well together.” As he spoke, he rose from the table and banged his cards down, overturning one of the half-filled glasses in the act.

Samson stooped, without remark, and picked up the glass. Mote endeavoured to conciliate Carter.

“Come, old man, don't give in yet; you must play on, and take your revenge.”

Carter, although considerably under the influence of the drink he had taken, was not to be persuaded to resume the game, and the others reluctantly gave up their play. A page 48 settling up was then entered into; the sums lost by Carter and Lane were something considerable, and to the latter, at least, much more than he could hope to pay for many months to come, in the regular course of his earnings. Mote speedily penned I.O.U.'s for the amounts, and obtained the signatures of the losers.

Lane was becoming more and more engulfed in his indebtedness to these men. He must speedily experience the danger of a contest so unequal as his feeble wit against the unscrupulous action of such sharpers.

To enter into a scratching match with a tiger, because he is only an enlarged cat, may betoken a knowledge of Natural History, but it is not evidence of a correct judgment.

Finding it impossible to persuade his victims to resume playing, Mote ordered more drink, and requested them to take a cigar, and enjoy a smoke. This, with the stimulation they had already received, they were nothing loth to do, and the four men sat down to a conversation that were better not recorded here. Repeated efforts were made to induce Carter and Lane to “have just another game,” but the former remained obdurate, and when the night had worn well on towards a close, he declared his intention of going home.

The card-players, therefore, had no alternative but to break up the party.