James Pethel | Page 4

been
winning, seemed moderate. Just as he was neither fat nor thin, so had
his face neither that extreme pallor nor that extreme redness which
belongs to the faces of seasoned gamblers: it was just a clear pink. And

his eyes had neither the unnatural brightness nor the unnatural dullness
of the eyes about him: they were ordinarily clear eyes, of an ordinary
gray. His very age was moderate: a putative thirty-six, not more. ("Not
less," I would have said in those days.) He assumed no air of
nonchalance. He did not deal out the cards as though they bored him,
but he had no look of grim concentration. I noticed that the removal of
his cigar from his mouth made never the least difference to his face, for
he kept his lips pursed out as steadily as ever when he was not smoking.
And this constant pursing of his lips seemed to denote just a pensive
interest.
His bank was nearly done now; there were only a few cards left.
Opposite to him was a welter of party-colored counters that the
croupier had not yet had time to sort out and add to the rouleaux
already made; there were also a fair accumulation of notes and several
little stacks of gold--in all, not less than five-hundred pounds, certainly.
Happy banker! How easily had he won in a few minutes more than I,
with utmost pains, could win in many months! I wished I were he. His
lucre seemed to insult me personally. I disliked him, and yet I hoped he
would not take another bank. I hoped he would have the good sense to
pocket his winnings and go home. Deliberately to risk the loss of all
those riches would intensify the insult to me.
"Messieurs, la banque est aux encheres." There was some brisk bidding
while the croupier tore open and shuffled two new packs. But it was as
I feared: the gentleman whom I resented kept his place.
"Messieurs, la banque est faite. Quinze-mille francs a la banque.
Messieurs, les cartes passent. Messieurs, les cartes passent."
Turning to go, I encountered a friend, one of the race-weekers, but in a
sense a friend.
"Going to play?" I asked.
"Not while Jimmy Pethel's taking the bank," he answered, with a laugh.
"Is that the man's name?"
"Yes. Don't you know him? I thought every one knew old Jimmy
Pethel."
I asked what there was so wonderful about "old Jimmy Pethel" that
every one should be supposed to know him.
"Oh, he's a great character. Has extraordinary luck--always."
I do not think my friend was versed in the pretty theory that good luck

is the subconscious wisdom of them who in previous incarnations have
been consciously wise. He was a member of the stock exchange, and I
smiled as at a certain quaintness in his remark. I asked in what ways
besides luck the "great character" was manifested. Oh, well, Pethel had
made a huge "scoop" on the stock exchange when he was only
twenty-three, and very soon had doubled that and doubled it again; then
retired. He wasn't more than thirty-five now, And then? Oh, well, he
was a regular all-round sportsman; had gone after big game all over the
world and had a good many narrow shaves. Great steeple-chaser, too.
Rather settled down now. Lived in Leicestershire mostly. Had a big
place there. Hunted five times a week. Still did an occasional flutter,
though. Cleared eighty-thousand in Mexicans last February. Wife had
been a barmaid at Cambridge; married her when he was nineteen.
Thing seemed to have turned out quite well. Altogether, a great
character.
Possibly, thought I. But my cursory friend, accustomed to quick
transactions and to things accepted "on the nod," had not proved his
case to my slower, more literary intelligence. It was to him, though,
that I owed, some minutes later, a chance of testing his opinion. At the
cry of "Messieurs, la banque est aux encheres," we looked round and
saw that the subject of our talk was preparing to rise from his place.
"Now one can punt," said Grierson (this was my friend's name), and
turned to the bureau at which counters are for sale. "If old Jimmy
Pethel punts," he added, "I shall just follow his luck." But this lode-star
was not to be. While my friend was buying his counters, and I was
wondering whether I, too, could buy some, Pethel himself came up to
the bureau. With his lips no longer pursed, he had lost his air of gravity,
and looked younger. Behind him was an attendant bearing a big
wooden bowl--that plain, but romantic, bowl supplied by the
establishment to a banker whose gains are too great to be pocketed. He
and Grierson greeted each other. He said he