The Face and the Mask by Robert Barr (books under 200 pages .txt) 📗
- Author: Robert Barr
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“You admit the robbery, then.”
“I admit nothing.”
“It won’t be used against you. As I told you, there are no witnesses. It will pay you to be frank. Where did you get the money?”
“Where many another man gets it. Out of the bank.”
“I thought so. Now, Forme, you are not such a fool as you look—or act. You know where all that sort of thing leads to. You haven’t any chance. All the rules of the game are against you. You have no more show than you had against me to-night. Why not chuck it, before it is too late?”
“It is easy for you to talk like that when you have my money in your pocket.”
“But that simply is another rule of the game. The money of a thief is bound to go into someone else’s pocket. Whoever enjoys the cash ultimately, he never does. Now if you had the money in your pocket what would you do?”
“I would go back to Mellish’s and have another try.”
“I believe you,” said Rowell with, for the first time, some cordiality in his voice. He recognized a kindred spirit in this young man. “Nevertheless it would be a foolish thing to do. You have two chances before you. You can become a sport as I am and spend your life in gambling rooms. Or you can become what is called a respectable business man. But you can’t be both. In a very short time you will not have the choice. You will be found out and then you can only be what I am— probably not as successful as I have been. If you add bank robbery to your other accomplishments then you will go to prison or, what is perhaps worse, to Canada. Which career are you going to choose?”
“Come down to plain facts. What do you mean by all this talk? If I say I’ll quit gambling do you mean that you will return to me the thousand dollars and call the other thousand square?”
“If you give me your word of honor that you will quit.”
“And if I don’t, what then?”
“Then on Monday I will hand over this money to the bank and advise them to look into your accounts.”
“And suppose my accounts prove to be all right, what then?”
Rowell shrugged his shoulders. “In that remote possibility I will give the thousand dollars to you and play you another game for it.”
“I see. Which means that you cheated to-night.”
“If you like to put it that way.”
“And what if I denounced you as a self-confessed cheat?”
“It wouldn’t matter to me. I wouldn’t take the trouble to deny it. Nobody would believe you.”
“You’re a cool hand, Pony, I admire your cheek. Still, you’ve got some silly elements in you.”
“Oh, you mean my trying to reform you? Don’t make any mistake about that. It is Mellish’s idea, not mine. I don’t believe in you for a moment.”
The young man laughed. He reflected for a few seconds, then said: “I’ll take your offer. You give me back the money and I will promise never to gamble again in any shape or form.”
“You will return the cash to the bank, if you took it from there?”
“Certainly. I will put it back the first thing on Monday morning.”
“Then here is your pile,” said Rowell, handing him the roll of bills.
Forme took it eagerly and, standing where the light struck down upon him, counted the bills, while Rowell looked on silently with a cynical smile on his lips.
“Thank you,” said the young man, “you’re a good fellow, Rowell.”
“I’m obliged for your good opinion. I hope you found the money correct?”
“Quite right,” said Forme, flushing a little. “I hope you did not mind my counting it. Merely a business habit, you know.”
“Well, stick to business habits, Mr. Forme. Good night.”
Rowell walked briskly back to Mellish’s. Forme walked toward the railway station and found that there was a train for Chicago at 4 in the morning. He had one clear day and part of another before he was missed, and as it turned out all trace of him was lost in the big city. The bank found about $6,000 missing. Two years after, news came that Forme had been shot dead in a gambling hall in Southern Texas.
“We are two first-class fools,” said Rowell to Mellish, “and I for one don’t feel proud of the episode, so we’ll say nothing more about it. The gambling mania was in his blood. Gambling is not a vice; it is a disease, latent in all of us.”
THE BRUISER’S COURTSHIP.
While the Northern Bruiser sat in the chair in his corner and was being fanned he resolved to finish the fight at the next round. The superior skill of his opponent was telling upon him, and although the Bruiser was a young man of immense strength, yet, up to that time, the alertness and dexterity of the Yorkshire Chicken had baffled him, and prevented him from landing one of his tremendous shoulder thrusts. But even though skill had checkmated strength up to this point, the Chicken had not entirely succeeded in defending himself, and was in a condition described by the yelling crowd as “groggy.”
When time was called the Bruiser was speedily on his feet. His face did not present the repulsive appearance so visible on the countenance of his opponent, but the Bruiser had experience enough to know that the body blows received in this fight had had their effect on his wind and staying powers; and that although the Chicken presented an appalling appearance with his swollen lips and cheeks, and his eyes nearly closed, yet he was in better trim for continuing the battle than the Bruiser.
The Chicken came up to the mark less promptly than his big antagonist, but whether it was from weakness or lack of sight, he seemed uncertain in his movements, and the hearts of his backers sank as they saw him stagger rather than walk to his place.
Before the Chicken, as it were, fully waked up to the situation, the Bruiser lunged forward and planted a blow on his temple that would have broken the guard of a man who was in better condition than the Chicken. The Yorkshireman fell like a log, and lay where he fell. Then the Bruiser got a lesson which terrified him. A sickly ashen hue came over the purple face of the man on the ground. The Bruiser had expected some defence, and the terrible blow had been even more powerful than he intended. A shivering whisper went round the crowd,
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