Poker Game by Stephen Crane
Usually a poker game is a picture of peace. There is no drama so
low-voiced and serene and monotonous. If an amateur loser does not
softly curse, there is no orchestral support. Here is one of the most
exciting and absorbing occupations known to intelligent American
manhood; here a year's reflection is compressed into a moment of
thought; here the nerves may stand on end and scream to themselves, but
a tranquillity as from heaven is only interrupted by the click of
chips. The higher the stakes the more quiet the scene; this is a law
that applies everywhere save on the stage.
And yet sometimes in a poker game things happen. Everybody remembers
the celebrated corner on bay rum that was triumphantly consummated by
Robert F. Cinch, of Chicago, assisted by the United States Courts and
whatever other federal power he needed. Robert F. Cinch enjoyed his
victory four months. Then he died, and young Bobbie Cinch came to New
York in order to more clearly demonstrate that there was a good deal of
fun in twenty-two million dollars.
Old Henry Spuytendyvil owns all the real estate in New York save
that previously appropriated by the hospitals and Central Park. He had
been a friend of Bob's father. When Bob appeared in New York,
Spuytendyvil entertained him correctly. It came to pass that they just
naturally played poker.
One night they were having a small game in an up-town hotel. There
were five of them, including two lawyers and a politician. The stakes
depended on the ability of the individual fortune.
Bobbie Cinch had won rather heavily. He was as generous as sunshine,
and when luck chases a generous man it chases him hard, even though he
cannot bet with all the skill of his opponents.
Old Spuytendyvil had lost a considerable amount. One of the lawyers
from time to time smiled quietly, because he knew Spuytendyvil well,
and he knew that anything with the name of loss attached to it sliced
the old man's heart into sections.
At midnight Archie Bracketts, the actor, came into the room. How
you holding 'em, Bob? said he.
Pretty well, said Bob.
Having any luck, Mr. Spuytendyvil?
Blooming bad, grunted the old man.
Bracketts laughed and put his foot on the round of Spuytendyvil's
chair. There, said he, I'll queer your luck for you. Spuytendyvil
sat at the end of the table. Bobbie, said the actor, presently, as
young Cinch won another pot, I guess I better knock your luck. So he
took his foot from the old man's chair and placed it on Bob's chair.
The lad grinned good-naturedly and said he didn't care.
Bracketts was in a position to scan both of the hands. It was Bob's
ante, and old Spuytendyvil threw in a red chip. Everybody passed out up
to Bobbie. He filled in the pot and drew a card.
Spuytendyvil drew a card. Bracketts, looking over his shoulder, saw
him holding the ten, nine, eight, and seven of diamonds. Theatrically
speaking, straight flushes are as frequent as berries on a juniper
tree, but as a matter of truth the reason that straight flushes are so
admired is because they are not as common as berries on a juniper tree.
Bracketts stared; drew a cigar slowly from his pocket, and placing it
between his teeth forgot its existence.
Bobbie was the only other stayer. Bracketts flashed an eye for the
lad's hand and saw the nine, eight, six, and five of hearts. Now, there
are but six hundred and forty-five emotions possible to the human mind,
and Bracketts immediately had them all. Under the impression that he
had finished his cigar, he took it from his mouth and tossed it toward
the grate without turning his eyes to follow its flight.
There happened to be a complete silence around the green-clothed
table. Spuytendyvil was studying his hand with a kind of contemptuous
smile, but in his eyes there perhaps was to be seen a cold, stern light
expressing something sinister and relentless.
Young Bob sat as he had sat. As the pause grew longer, he looked up
once inquiringly at Spuytendyvil.
The old man reached for a white chip. Well, mine are worth about
that much, said he, tossing it into the pot. Thereupon he leaned back
comfortably in his chair and renewed his stare at the five straight
diamond. Young Bob extended his hand leisurely toward his stack. It
occurred to Bracketts that he was smoking, but he found no cigar in his
The lad fingered his chips and looked pensively at his hand. The
silence of those moments oppressed Bracketts like the smoke from a
Bobbie Cinch continued for some moments to coolly observe his cards.
At last he breathed a little sigh and said, Well, Mr. Spuytendyvil, I
can't play a sure thing against you. He threw in a white chip. I'll
just call you. I've got a straight flush. He faced down his cards.
Old Spuytendyvil's fear, horror, and rage could only be equalled in
volume to a small explosion of gasolene. He dashed his cards upon the
table. There! he shouted, glaring frightfully at Bobbie. I've got a
straight flush, too! And mine is Jack high!
Bobbie was at first paralysed with amazement, but in a moment he
recovered, and apparently observing something amusing in the situation
Archie Bracketts, having burst his bond of silence, yelled for joy
and relief. He smote Bobbie on the shoulder. Bob, my boy, he cried
exuberantly, you're no gambler, but you're a mighty good fellow, and
if you hadn't been you would be losing a good many dollars this
Old Spuytendyvil glowered at Bracketts. Stop making such an
infernal din, will you, Archie, he said morosely. His throat seemed
filled with pounded glass. Pass the whisky.