Hagars Daughter | Page 9

course."
"Why 'of course?'" asked Walker with a wicked smile on his ugly face.
"He always wins."
"I reckon not now," returned Walker, as he pointed to the play just made.
"He's dealing above board and square, and luck's agin him."
It was true. From this time on Enson played again and again, and lost. The other players left their seats and stood near watching the famous gambler make his play. Finally, with a muttered curse, he staggered up from his chair and started to leave the table with desperate eyes and reeling gate. But he stopped as if struck by a sudden inspiration, and resumed his seat.
"What will he do now?" was the unspoken thought of the crowd.
"Isaac, come here," called out Enson. "I will see you and five hundred better," he continued, addressing his opponent, as the boy approached, and at a signal from him climbed upon the table. The crowd watched the strange scene in breathless silence.
"What price do you set on the boy?" asked the winner, whose name was Johnson, taking a large roll of bills from his pocket.
"He will bring eighteen hundred dollars any day in the New Orleans market."
"I reckon he ain't noways vicious?" asked Johnson, looking in the Negro's smiling face.
"I've never seen him angry."
"I'll give you fifteen hundred for him."
"Eighteen," returned Enson, with an ominous tightening about the mouth.
"Well, I'll tell you what I'll do, the very best; I'll make it sixteen hundred, no more, no less. That's fair. Is it a bargain?"
Enson nodded assent. The crowd heaved a sigh of relief.
"Then you bet the whole of this boy, do you?" continued Johnson.
"Yes."
"I call you, then," said Johnson.
"I've got three queens," replied Enson.
"Not enough," said the other.
"Then if you beat three queens, you beat me."
"I have four jacks, and the boy is mine." The crowd heaved another sigh as one man.
"Hold on! Not so fast!" shouted Enson. "You don't take him till you show me that you beat three queens." Johnson threw his five cards upon the table, and four of them were jacks! "Sure," said Johnson, as he looked at Enson and then at the crowd.
"Sure!" came in a hoarse murmur from many throats. For a moment all things whirled and danced before Enson's eyes as he realized what he had lost. The lights from the chandelier shot out sparkles from piles of golden coin, the table heaved, faces were indistinct. He seemed to hear his father's voice again in stern condemnation, as he had heard it for the last time on earth. His face was white and set. He was a man ready for desperate needs. It seemed an hour to him, that short second. Then he turned to the winner:
"Mr. Johnson, I quit you."
Isaac was standing upon the table with the money at his feet. As he stepped down, Johnson said:
"You will not forget that you belong to me."
"No, sir."
"Be up in time to brush my clothes and clean my boots; do you hear?"
"Yas, sir," responded Isaac, with a good-natured smile and a long side-glance at Enson, in which one might have seen the lurking deviltry of a spirit kindred to his master's. Enson turned to leave the saloon, saying:
"I claim the right of redeeming that boy, Mr. Johnson. My father gave him to me when I was a lad. I promised never to part with him."
"Most certainly, sir; the boy shall be yours whenever you hand me over a cool sixteen hundred," returned Johnson. As Enson moved away, chewing the bitter curd of disappointment, Walker strolled up to him.
"That's a bad bargain Johnson's got in your man, Mr. Enson."
"How? Explain yourself."
"If he finds him after tomorrow morning, it's my belief it won't be the fault of Isaac's legs."
"Do you mean to say, sir, that I would connive at robbing a gentleman in fair play?"
"Oh, no; it won't be your fault," replied Walker with a familiar slap on Enson's back, that made the latter wince; "but he's a cute darkey that you can sell in good faith to a man, but he won't stay with him. Bet you the nigger'll be in Baltimore time you are."
"I'll take you. Make your bet."
Walker shook his head. "No, don't you do it. Luck's agin you, an' I won't rob you. That nigger'll lose you, sure."
Enson made no reply, but stood gazing moodily out upon the dark waters of the Atlantic, through which the steamer swiftly ploughed her way. Finally Walker continued:
"Why don't you try another game? Keep it up; luck may change. I'll lend you."
Enson waved his hand impatiently and said: "No; no more tonight. I have not a cent in the world until I eat humble pie and beg money from my brother."
"Tough!"
"Thank you. I do not want your sympathy."
"My help, then. Perhaps I can help you. Enson smiled derisively at the endless black waves and