Shorty falls A victim to his gambling propensities.

The boys did not finish their tour of picket duty till the forenoon of the next day, and it was getting toward evening when they reached their own camp.

“What in the world’s going on at the house?” Si asked anxiously, as they were standing on the regimental parade ground waiting to be dismissed.  Strange sounds came floating from that direction.  The scraping of a fiddle was mingled with yells, the rush of feet, and laughter.

“I’ll go over there and see,” said the Deacon, who had sat down behind the line on a pile of the things they had brought back with them.  He picked up the coffee-pot, the frying-pan, and one of the haversacks, and walked in the direction of the house.  As he turned into the company street and came in sight of the cabin he looked for an instant, and then broke out: 

“I’m blamed if they don’t seem to be havin’ a nigger political rally there, with the house as campaign headquarters.  Where in time could they have all come from?  Looks like a crow-roost, with some o’ the crows drunk.”

Apparently, all the negro cooks, teamsters, officers’ servants, and roustabouts from the adjoining camps had been gathered there, with Groundhog, Pilgarlic, and similar specimens of the white teamsters among them and leading them.

Seated on a log were three negroes, one sawing on an old fiddle, one picking a banjo, and one playing the bones.  Two negroes were in the center of a ring, dancing, while the others patted “Juba.”  All were more or less intoxicated.  Groundhog and Pilgarlic were endeavoring to get up a fight between Abraham Lincoln and another stalwart, stupid negro, and were plying them with whisky from a canteen and egging them on with words.

The Deacon strode up to Groundhog and, catching him by the arm, demanded sternly: 

“What are you doing, you miserable scoundrel?  Stop it at once.”

Groundhog, who had drunk considerable himself, and was pot-valiant, shook him off roughly, saying: 

“G’way from here, you dumbed citizen.  This hain’t none o’ your bizniss.  Go back to your haymow and leave soldiers alone.”

The Deacon began divesting himself of his burden to prepare for action, but before he could do so, Shorty rushed in, gave Groundhog a vigorous kick, and he and Si dispersed the rest of the crowd in a hurry with sharp cuffs for all they could reach.  The meeting broke up without a motion to adjourn.

The Deacon caught Abraham Lincoln by the collar and shook him vigorously.

“You black rascal,” he said, “what’ve you bin up to?”

“Didn’t ’spect you back so soon.  Boss,” gasped the negro.  “Said you wouldn’t be back till termorrer.”

“No matter when you expected us back,” said the Deacon, shaking him still harder, while Si winked meaningly at Shorty.  “What d’ye mean by sich capers as this?  You’ve bin a-drinkin’ likker, you brute.”

“Cel’bratun my freedom,” gasped the negro.  “Groundhog done tole me to.”

“I’d like to celebrate his razzled head offen him,” exploded the Deacon.  “I’ll welt him into dog’s meat hash if I kin lay my hands on him.  He’s too mean and wuthless to even associate with mules.  If I’d a dog on my place as onery as he is I’d give him a button before night.  He’s not content with bein’ a skunk himself; he wants to drag everybody else down to his level.  Learnin’ you to drink whisky and fight as soon as you’re out o’ bondage.  Next thing he’ll be learnin’ you to steal sheep and vote for Vallandigham.  I’d like to put a stone around his neck and feed him to the catfish.”

There was something so strange and earnest about the Deacon’s wrath that it impressed the negro more than any of the most terrible exhibitions of wrath that he had seen his master make.  He cowered down, and began crying in a maudlin way and begging: 

“Pray God, Boss, don’t be so hard on a poor nigger.”

Si, who had learned something more of the slave nature than his father, ended the unpleasant scene by giving Abraham Lincoln a sharp slap across the hips with a piece of clapboard and ordering: 

“Pick up that camp-kettle, go to the spring and fill it, and git back here in short meter.”

The blow came to the negro as a welcome relief.  It was something that he could understand.  He sprang to his feet, grinned, snatched up the campkettle, and ran to the spring.

“I must get that man away from here without delay,” said the Deacon.  “The influences here are awful.  They’ll ruin him.  He’ll lose his soul if he stays here.  I’ll start home with him to-morrow.”

“He’ll do worse’n lose his soul,” grumbled Shorty, who had been looking over the provisions.  “He’ll lose the top of his woolly head if he brings another gang o’ coons around here to eat us out o’ house and home.  I’ll be gosh durned if I don’t believe they’ve eat up even all the salt and soap.  There ain’t a crumb left of anything.  Talk about losin’ his soul.  I’d give six bits for something to make him lose his appetite.”

“I’ll take him home to-morrow,” reiterated the Deacon.  “I raised over ‘leven hundred bushels o’ corn last year, ‘bout 500 o’ wheat, and just an even ton o’ pork.  I kin feed him awhile, anyway, but I don’t know as I’d chance two of him.”

“What’ll you do if you have him and the grasshoppers the same year, Pap?” inquired Si.

That night the Deacon began his preparations for returning home.  He had gathered up many relics from the battlefield to distribute among his friends at home and decorate the family mantlepiece.  There were fragments of exploded shells, some canister, a broken bayonet, a smashed musket, a solid 12-pound shot, and a quart or more of battered bullets picked up in his walks over the scenes of the heavy fighting.

“Looks as if you were going into the junk business.  Pap,” commented Si, as the store was gathered on the floor.

The faithful old striped carpetsack was brought out, and its handles repaired with stout straps.  The thrifty Deacon insisted on taking home some of Si’s and Shorty’s clothes to be mended.  The boys protested.

“We don’t mend clothes in the army, Pap,” said Si.  “They ain’t wuth it.  We just wear ’em out throw ’em away, and draw new ones.”

The Deacon held out that his mother and sisters would take great pleasure in working on such things, from the feeling that they were helping the war along.  Finally the matter was compromised by putting in some socks to be darned and shirts to be mended.  Then the bullets, canister, round-shot, fragments of shell, etc., were filled in.

“I declare,” said the Deacon dubiously, as he hefted the carpetsack.  “It’s goin’ to be a job to lug that thing back home.  Better hire a mule-team.  But I’ll try it.  Mebbe it’ll help work some o’ the stupidity out o’ Abraham Lincoln.”

The whole of Co.  Q and most of the regiment had grown very fond of the Deacon, and when it was noised around that he was going, they crowded in to say good-by, and give him letters and money to take home.  The remaining space in the carpetsack and all that in the Deacon’s many pockets were filled with these.

The next morning the company turned out to a man and escorted him to the train, with Si and his father marching arm-in-arm at the head, the company fifers playing,

     “Ain’t I glad to get out of the Wilderness,
     Way down in Tennessee,”

and Abraham Lincoln, laden with the striped carpetsack, the smashed musket and other relics, bringing up the rear, under the supervision of Shorty.  Tears stood in the old man’s eyes as he stood on the platform of the car, and grasped Si’s and Shorty’s hands in adieu.  His brief farewell was characteristic of the strong, self-contained Western man: 

“Good-by, boys.  God bless you.  Take care of yourselves.  Be good boys.  Come home safe after the war.”

The boys stood and watched the train with sorrowful eyes until it had passed out of sight in the woods beyond Overall’s Creek, and then turned to go to their camp with a great load of homesickness weighing down their hearts.

“Just think of it; he’s going straight back to God’s country,” said someone near.

A sympathetic sigh went up from all.

“Shet up,” said Shorty savagely.  “I don’t want to hear a word o’ that kind.  He pulled his hat down over his eyes, rammed his hands deep in his pockets, and strode off, trying to whistle

     “When this cruel war is over,”

but the attempt was a dismal failure.  Si separated from the crowd and joined him.  They took an unfrequented and roundabout way back to camp.

“I feel all broke up.  Si,” said Shorty.  “I wish that we were goin’ into a fight, or something to stir us up.”

Si understood his partner’s mood, and that it was likely to result in an outbreak of some kind.  He tried to get him over to the house, so that he could get him interested in work there.

They came to a little hidden ravine, and found it filled with men playing that most fascinating of all gambling games to the average soldier-chucka-luck.  There were a score of groups, each gathered around as many “sweat-boards.”  Some of the men “running” the games were citizens, and some were in uniform.  Each had before him a small board on which was sometimes painted, sometimes rudely marked with charcoal, numbers from 1 to 6.

On some of the boards the numbers were indicated by playing-cards, from ace to six-spot, tacked down.  The man who “ran” the game had a dice-box, with three dice.  He would shake the box, turn it upside down on the board, and call upon the group in front of him to make their bets.

The players would deposit their money on the numbers that they fancied, and then, after the inquiry, “All down?” the “banker” would raise the box and reveal the dice.  Those who had put their money on any of the three numbers which had turned up, would be paid, while those who bet on the other three would lose.

Chuck-a-luck was strictly prohibited in camp, but it was next to impossible to keep the men from playing it.  Citizen gamblers would gain admittance to camp under various pretexts and immediately set up boards in secluded places, and play till they were discovered and run out, by which time they would have made enough to make it an inducement to try again whenever they could find an opportunity.  They followed the army incessantly for this purpose, and in the aggregate carried off immense sums of the soldiers’ pay.  Chuck-a-luck is one of the fairest of gambling games, when fairly played, which it rarely or never is by a professional gambler.  A tolerably quick, expert man finds little difficulty in palming the dice before a crowd of careless soldiers so as to transfer the majority of their bets to his pocket.  The regular citizen gamblers were reinforced by numbers of insatiable chuck-a-luckers in the ranks, who would set up a “board” at the least chance, even under the enemy’s fire, while waiting the order to move.

Chuck-a-luck was Shorty’s greatest weakness.  He found it as difficult to pass a chuck-a-luck board as an incurable drunkard does to pass a dram-shop.

Si knew this, and shuddered a little as he saw the “layouts,” and tried to get his partner past them.  But it was of no use.  Shorty was in an intractable mood.  He must have a strong distraction.  If he could not fight he would gamble.

“I’m goin’ to bust this feller’s bank before I go another step,” said he, stopping before one.  “I know him.  He’s the same feller that, you remember, I busted down before Nashville.  I kin do it agin.  He’s a bum citizen gambler.  He thinks he’s the smartest chuck-a-lucker in the Army o’ the Cumberland, but I’ll learn him different.”

“Don’t risk more’n a dollar,” begged Si as a final appeal.

“All down?” called the “banker.”

“Allow doublin’?” inquired Shorty.

“Double as much as you blamed please, so long’s you put your money down,” answered the “banker” defiantly.

“Well, then, here goes a dollar on that five-spot,” said Shorty, “skinning” a bill from a considerable roll.

“Don’t allow more’n 25 cents bet on single cards, first bet,” said the “banker,” dismayed by the size of the roll.

“Thought you had some sand,” remarked Shorty contemptuously.  “Well, then, here’s 25 cents on the five-spot, and 25 cents on the deuce,” and he placed shin-plasters on the numbers.  “Now, throw them dice straight, and no fingerin’.  I’m watchin’ you.”

“Watch and be durned,” said the “banker” surlily.  “Watch your own business, and I’ll watch mine.  I’m as honest as you are any day."

The “banker” lifted the box, and showed two sixes and a tray up.  He raked in the bets on the ace, deuce, four and five-spots, and paid the others.

“Fifty cents on the deuce; 50 cents on the five,” said Shorty, laying down the fractional currency.

Again they lost.

“A dollar on the deuce; a dollar on the five,” said Shorty.

The same ill luck.

“Two dollars on the deuce; two dollars on the five,” said Shorty, though Si in vain plucked his sleeve to get him away.

The spots remained obstinately down.

“Four dollars on the deuce; four dollars on the five,” said Shorty.

No better luck.

“Eight dollars on the deuce; eight dollars on the five,” said Shorty.

“Whew, there goes more’n a month’s pay,” said the other players, stopping to watch the dice as they rolled out, with the deuce and five-spot down somewhere else than on top.  “And his roll’s beginning to look as if an elephant had stepped on it.  Now we’ll see his sand.”

“Come, Shorty, you’ve lost enough.  You’ve lost too much already.  Luck’s agin you,” urged Si.  “Come away.”

“I ain’t goin’,” said Shorty, obstinately.  “Now’s my chance to bust him.  Every time them spots don’t come up increases the chances that they’ll come up next time.  They’ve got to.  They’re not loaded; I kin tell that by the way they roll.  He ain’t fingerin’ ’em; I stopped that when I made him give ’em a rollin’ throw, instead o’ keep in’ ’em kivvered with the box.”

“Sixteen dollars on the deuce; sixteen dollars on the five-spot.  And I ain’t takin’ no chances o’ your jumpin’ the game on me, Mr. Banker.  I want you to plank down $32 alongside o’ mine.”

Shorty laid down his money and put his fists on it.  “Now put yours right there.”

“O, I’ve got money enough to pay you.  Don’t be skeered,” sneered the “banker,” “and you’ll git it if you win it.”

“You bet I will,” answered Shorty.  “And I’m goin’ to make sure by havin’ it right on the board alongside o’ mine.  Come down, now.”

The proposition met the favor of the other players, and the “banker” was constrained to comply.

“Now,” said Shorty, as the money was counted down, “I’ve jest $20 more that says that I’ll win.  Put her up alongside.”

The “banker” was game.  He pulled out a roll and said as he thumbed it over: 

“I’ll see you $20, and go you $50 better that I win.”

Shorty’s heart beat a little faster.  All his money was up, but there was the $50 which the Deacon had intrusted to him for charitable purposes.  He slipped his hand into his bosom, felt it, and looked at Si.  Si was not looking at him, but had his eyes fixed on a part of the board where the dice had been swept after the last throw.  Shorty resisted the temptation for a moment, and withdrew his hand.

“Come down, now,” taunted the “banker.”  “You’ve blowed so much about sand.  Don’t weaken over a little thing like $50.  I’m a thoroughbred, myself, I am.  The man don’t live that kin bluff me.”

The taunt was too much for Shorty.  He ran his hand into his bosom in desperation, pulled out the roll of the Deacon’s money, and laid it on the board.

Si had not lifted his eyes.  He was wondering why the flies showed such a liking for the part of the board where the dice were lying.  Numbers of them had gathered there, apparently eagerly feeding.  He was trying to understand it.

He had been thinking of trying a little shy at the four-spot himself, as he had noticed that it had never won, and two or three times he had looked for it before the dice were put in the box, and had seen the “banker” turn it down on the board before picking the dice up.  A thought flashed into his mind.

The “banker” picked up the dice with seeming carelessness, dropped them into the box, gave them a little shake, and rolled them out.  Two threes and a six came up.  The “banker’s” face lighted up with triumph, and Shorty’s deadened into acute despair.

“I guess that little change is mine,” said the “banker” reaching for the pile.

“Hold on a minnit.  Mister,” said Si, covering the pile with his massive hands.  “Shorty, look at them dice.  He’s got molasses on one side.  You kin see there where the flies are eatin’ it.”

Shorty snatched up the dice, felt them and touched his tongue to one side.  “That’s so, sure’s you’re a foot high,” said he sententiously.

Just then someone yelled: 

“Scatter!  Here come the guards!"

All looked up.  A company coming at the doublequick was almost upon them.  The “banker” made a final desperate claw for the money, but was met by the heavy fist of Shorty and knocked on his back.  Shorty grabbed what money there was on the board, and he and Si made a burst of speed which took them out of reach of the “provos” in a few seconds.  Looking back from a safe distance they could see the “bankers” and a lot of the more luckless ones being gathered together to march to the guard-house.  “Another detachment of horny-handed laborers for the fortifications,” said Shorty grimly, as he recovered his breath, watched them, and sent up a yell of triumph and derision.  “Another contribution to the charity fund,” he continued, looking down at the bunch of bills and fractional currency in his hands.

“Shorty,” said Si earnestly, “promise me solemnly that you’ll never bet at chuck-a-luck agin as long as you live.”

“Si, don’t ask me impossibilities.  But I want you to take every cent o’ this money and keep it.  Don’t you ever give me more’n $5 at a time, under any consideration.  Don’t you do it, if I git down on my knees and ask for it.  Lord, how nigh I come to losin’ that $50 o’ your father’s.”