Lewis Alfred Henry
Sandburrs and Others
ESSLEIN GAMES
For generations the Essleins have been fanciers of game chickens. The name “Esslein” for a century and a half has had honourable place among Virginians. In his day, they, the Essleins, were as well known as Thomas Jefferson. As this is written they have equal Old Dominion fame with either the Conways, the Fairfaxes, the McCarthys or the Lees. And all because of the purity and staunch worth of the “Esslein Games.”
It was the broad Esslein boast that no man had chickens of such feather or strain. And this was accepted popularly as truth. The Essleins never loaned, sold, nor gave away egg or chicken. No one could produce the counterpart of the Esslein chickens for looks or warlike heart; no one ever won a main from the Essleins. So at last it was agreed generally, that no one save the Essleins did have the “Esslein Games;” and this belief went unchallenged while years added themselves to years.
But there came a day when a certain one named Smith, who dwelt in the region round about the Essleins, and who also had note for his fighting cocks, whispered to a neighbour that he, as well as the Essleins, had the “Esslein Games.” The whisper spread into talk, and the talk into general clamour; everywhere one heard that the long monopoly was broken, and that Smith had the “Esslein Games.”
This startling story had half confirmation by visitors to the Smith walks. Undoubtedly Smith had chickens, feather for feather, twins of the famous Essleins. That much at least was true. The rest of the question might have evidence pro or con some day, should Smith and the Essleins make a main.
But this great day seemed slow, uncertain of approach. Smith would not divulge the genesis of his fowls, nor tell how he came to be possessed of the Esslein chickens. Smith confined himself to the bluff claim:
“I’ve got ‘em, and there they be.”
Beyond this Smith wouldn’t go. On’ their parts, the Essleins, at first maintained themselves in silent dignity. They said nothing; treating the Smith claim as beneath contempt.
As man after man, however, went over to the Smith side, the Essleins so far unbent from their pose of tongue-tied hauteur as to call Smith “a liar!”
Still this failed of full effect; the talk went on, the subject was in mighty dispute, and the Essleins at last, to settle discussion, defied Smith to a main.
But Smith refused to fight his chickens against the Essleins. Smith said it was conscience, but failed to go into details. This was damaging. Meanwhile, however, as Smith challenged the world of fighting cocks, and, moreover, won every match he ever made, and barred only the Essleins in his campaigning, there arose, in spite of his steady objection to fighting the Essleins, many who believed Smith and stood forth for it that Smith did have the far-famed “Esslein Games.” It is to the credit of the Essleins that they did all that was in their power to bring Smith and his chickens to the battlefield. They offered him every inducement known in chicken war, and tendered him a duel for his cocks to be fought for anything from love to money.
Firm to the last, Smith wouldn’t have it; and so, discouraged, the Essleins, failing action, nailed as it were their gauntlet to Smith’s hen-coop door, and thus the business stood for months.
It came about one day that a stranger from Baltimore accepted Smith’s standing challenge to fight anybody save the Essleins. The stranger proposed and made a match with Smith to fight him nine battles, $500 on each couple and $2,500 on the general main. And then the news went ‘round.
There was high excitement in chicken circles. The day came and the sides of the pit were crowded. Smith was in his corner with his handler, getting the first of his champions ready for the struggle. As Smith was holding the chicken for the handler to fasten on the gaffs – drop-socket, they were, and keen as little scimetars – he chanced to glance across the pit.
There stood John, chief of the Essleins.
Smith saw it in a moment; he had been trapped. But it was too late. The match was made and the money was up; there was no chance to retrace, even if Smith had wanted. As a fact to his glory, however, he had no desire so to do.
“We’re up against the Essleins, Bill,” Smith said to his trainer; “and it’s all right. I didn’t want to make a match with them, because I got their chickens queer. And if I’d fought them and won, I’d felt like I’d got their money queer; and that I couldn’t stand. But this is different. We’ll fight the Essleins now they’re here, and ‘if they can win over me, they’re welcome.”
Then the main began. The first battle was short, sharp, deadly; and glorious for Smith. The Esslein chicken got a stab in the heart the first buckle. Smith smiled as his handler pulled his chicken’s gaff out of its dead victim, and set it free.
The Smith entries won the second and third battle. Triumph rode on the glance of Smith, while the Esslein brows were bleak and dark.
“Smith’s got the ‘Esslein Games,’ sure!” was whispered about the pit.
In the fourth and fifth battles the tide ran the other way, the Esslein chickens killing their rivals. Each battle, for that matter, had so far been to the death.
The sixth battle went to Smith and the seventh to the Essleins. Thus it stood four for Smith to three for the Essleins, just before the eighth battle. It didn’t look as if Smith could lose.
It was at this juncture so hopeful for the coops of Smith, that Smith did a foolish thing. Yielding to the appeals of his trainer, Smith let that worthy man put up a chicken of his own to face the Esslein entry for the eighth duel. It was a gorgeous shawl-neck that Smith’s trainer produced; eye bright as a diamond, and beak like some arrow-head of jet. His legs looked as strong as a hod-carrier’s. It was a horse to a hen, so everybody said, that the Esslein chicken, – which was but a small, indifferent bird, – would lose its life, the battle, and the main at one and the same time.
Popular conjecture was wrong, as popular conjecture often is. The Esslein chicken locked both gaffs through the shawl-neck’s brain in the second buckle.
“That teaches me a lesson,” said Smith. “Hereafter should an angel come down from heaven and beg me to let him fight a chicken in a main of mine, I’ll turn him down!”
It was the ninth battle and the score stood four for Smith and four for the Essleins. As the slim gaffs, grey and cruelly sharp, were being placed on the feathered gladiators for the last deadly joust, Smith called across the pit to John Esslein:
“Esslein,” he said, “no matter how this last battle may fall, I reckon I’ve convinced you and everybody looking on, that, just as I said, I’ve got the ‘Esslein Games.’ To show you that I know I have, and give you a chance for revenge as well, I’ll make this last fight for $10,000 a cock. The main so far has been an even break, and neither of us has won or lost. The last battle decides the tie and wins or loses me $3,000. To make it interesting, I’ll raise the risk both ways, if you’re willing, just $7,000, and call the bundle ten. And,” concluded Smith, as he glanced around the pit, “there isn’t a sport here but will believe in his heart, when I, a poor man, offer to make this last battle one for $20,000, that I know that, even if I’m against, I’m at least behind an ‘Esslein Game.’”
“Make it for $10,000 a cock, then!” said John Esslein bitterly. “Whether I win or lose main and money too, I’ve already lost much more than both to-day.”
Then the fight began. The chickens were big and strong and quick and as dauntlessly savage as ospreys. And feather and size, eye, and beak and leg, they were the absolute counterparts of each other.
For ten minutes the battle raged. Either the spurred fencers had more of luck or more of caution than the others. Buckle after buckle occurred, and after ten minutes’ fighting the two enemies still faced each other with angry, bead-like eyes, and without so much as a drop of blood spilled.
They fronted each other balefully while one might count seven. Their beaks travelled up and down as evenly as if moved by the same impulse. Then they clashed together.
This time, – as they drew apart, Smith’s chicken fell upon its side, its right leg cut and broken well up toward the hip, with the bone pushing upward and outward through the slash of the gaff.
“Get your chicken and wring its neck, Smith,” said someone. “It’s all over!”
“Let them fight!” responded Smith. “It’s not ‘all over!’ That chicken of Esslein’s has a long row to hoe to kill that bird of mine.”
Hardly were the words uttered when a strange chance befell. Smith’s prostrate cripple reached up as its foe approached, seized it with its beak, and struggled to its one good foot. In the buckle that followed, the one gaff by some sleight of the cripple slashed the Esslein chicken over the eyes and blinded it. The muscles closed down and covered the eyes. Otherwise the Esslein cock was unhurt.
Then began a long, fierce, yet feeble fight. One chicken couldn’t stand and the other couldn’t see. The Smith chicken would lie on its side and watch its rival with eyes blazing hate, while the Esslein chicken, blind as a bat, would grope for him. When he came within reach of Smith’s chicken, that indomitable bird would seize him with his bill; there would be some weak, aimless clashing, and again they’d be separated, the blind one to grope, the cripple to lie and wait.
The war limped on in this fashion for almost two hours. But the end came. As the Esslein chicken strayed blindly within reach, its enemy got a strong, sudden grip, and in the collision that was the sequel, the Esslein chicken had its head half slashed from its body. It staggered a step with blood spurting, tottered and fell dead.
Smith said never a word, but from first to last his face had been cold and grimly indifferent. His heart was fire, but no one could see it in his face. Evidently the man was as clean-strain as his chickens.
That’s all there is to the story. What became of the victor with the broken leg? Smith looked him over, decided it was “no use,” and wrung his dauntless neck. The great main was over. Smith had won, everybody knew, as Smith went home that night, that he wras $10,000 better off, and that fast and sure, beyond denial or doubt, Smith had the “Esslein Games.”
THE PAINFUL ERROR
This is a tale of school life. Fred Avery, Charles Roy and Benjamin Clayton are scholars in the same school. The name of this seminary is withheld by particular request. Suffice it that all three of these youths come and go and have their bright young beings within the neighbourhood of Newark. The age of each is thirteen years. Thirteen is a sinister number. They are all jocund, merry-hearted boys, and put in many hours each day thinking up a good time.
One day during the noon hour the school building was all but deserted. Charles Roy, Fred Avery and Benjamin Clayton, however, were there. They had formed plans for their entertainment which demanded the desertion of the school building as chronicled. The coast being fairly clear, the conspiring three proceeded to one of the upper recitation rooms of the building. This room did not appertain to the particular school favoured by the attendance of Fred Avery, Charles Roy and Benjamin Clayton as scholars. This, however, only added zest to the adventure.
The room to which our heroes repaired was the recitation stamping ground of a high school class in physiology. The better to know anatomy, the class was furnished with the skeleton of some dead gentleman, all nicely hung and arranged with wires so as to look as much like former days as possible. During class hours the framework of the dead person stood in a corner of the room, and the students learned things from it that were useful to know. When off duty it reposed in a box.
Fred Avery, Charles Roy and Benjamin Clayton had heard of deceased. Their purpose this noon was to call on him. They gained entrance to the room by the burglarious method of picking the lock. Once within they took the skeleton from its box home and stood it in the window where the public might revel in the spectacle. To take off any grimness of effect they fixed a cob pipe in its bony jaws and clothed the skull in a bad hat, pulled much over the left eye, the whole conferring upon the remains a highly gala, joyous air indeed.
Then Charles Roy, Fred Avery and Benjamin Clayton withdrew from the scene.
The skeleton in the window was very popular. Countless folk had assembled to gaze upon it at the end of the first ten minutes, and armies were on their way.
The principal of the school as he came from lunch saw it and was much vexed. He put the skeleton back in its box, and the hydra-headed public slowly dispersed.
Fred Avery, Charles Roy and Benjamin Clayton secretly gloated over the transaction in detail and entirety. But the principal began to make inquiries; the avenger was on the track of the criminal three. Some big girls had witnessed the felonious entrance of the guilty ones into the den of the skeleton. The big girls imparted their knowledge to the principal, hunting these felons of the school. But the big girls slipped a cog on one important point. They did not know the recreant Benjamin Clayton. After arguing it all over they decided that “the third boy” was a very innocent young person named Albert Weed, and so gave in the names of the guerillas as:
“Charles Roy, Fred Avery and Albert Weed!” That afternoon the indignant principal demanded that Fred Avery, Charles Roy and Albert Weed attend him to the study. They were there charged with the atrocity of the skeleton in the window. Charles Roy and Fred Avery confessed and asked for mercy. Albert Weed denied having art, part or lot in the outrage. The principal was much shocked at his prompt depravity in trying to lie himself clear. The principal, in order to be exactly just, and evenly fair, craved to know of Charles Roy and Fred Avery:
“Was Albert Weed with you?”
“Please, sir, we would rather be excused from answering,” they said, hanging down their heads.
Then the principal knew that Albert Weed was guilty. Fred Avery and Charles Roy were forgiven, and were complimented on their straightforward, manly course in refusing to tell a lie to shield themselves.
“As for you, Albert,” observed the principal, as he seized Albert Weed by the top of his head, “as for you, Albert, I do not punish you for being roguish with the skeleton, but for telling me a lie.”
The principal thereupon lambasted the daylights out of Albert Weed.
THE RAT
(Annals of The Bend)
Be d’ cops at d’ Central office fly?” Chucky buried his face in his tankard in a polite effort to hide his contempt for the question. “Be dey fly! Say! make no mistake! d’ Central Office mugs is as soon a set of geezers as ever looked over d’ hill. Dey’re d’ swiftest ever. On d’ level! I t’ink t’ree out of every four of them gezebos could loin to play d’ pianny in one lesson.
“Just to put youse onto how quick dey be, an’ to give you some idee of their curves, let me tell you what dey does to Billy d’ Rat.
“Youse never chases up on d’ Rat? Nit! Well, Cully, you don’t miss much. Yes, d’ Rat’s a crook all right. He’s a nipper, but a dead queer one, see! He always woiks alone, an’ his lay is diamonds.
“‘I don’t want no pals or stalls in mine,” says d’ Rat. “I can toin all needful tricks be me lonesome. Stalls is a give-away, see! Let some sucker holler, an’ let one of your mob get pinched, an’ what then? Why, about d’ time he’s stood up an’ given d’ secont degree be Mc-Clusky, he coughs. That’s it! he squeals, an’ d’ nex’ dash out o’ d’ box youse don’t get a t’ing but d’ collar. Nine out o’ ten of d’ good people doin’ time to-day, was t’rown into soak be some pal knockin’. I passes all that up! I goes it alone! If I nips a rock it’s mine; I don’t split out no bits for no snoozer, see! I’m d’ entire woiks, an’ if I stumbles an’ falls be d’ wayside, it’s me’s to blame. Which last makes it easier to stan’ for.’
“That’s d’ way d’ Rat lays out d’ ground for me one day,” continued Chucky, “an’ he ain’t slingin’ no guff at that. It’s d’ way he always woiked.
“But to skin back to d’ Central Office cops an’ how flydey be: One of d’ Rat’s favourite stunts is dampin’ a diamond. What’s that? Youse’ll catch on as me tale unfolds, as d’ nov’lists puts it.
“Here’s how d’ Rat would graft. Foist he’d rub up his two lamps wit’ pepper till dey looks red an’, out of line. When he’d got t’rough doin’ d’ pepper act to ‘em, d’ Rat’s peeps, for fair! would do to understudy two fried eggs.
“Then d’ Rat would pull on a w’ite wig, like he’s some old stuff; an’ wit’ that an’ some black goggles over his peeps, his own Rag wouldn’t have known him. To t’row ‘em down for sure, d’ Rat would wear a cork-sole shoe, – one of these 6-inch soles, – like he’s got a game trilby. Then when he’s all made up in black togs, d’ Rat is ready.
“Bein’ organised, d’ Rat hobbles into a cab an’ drives to a diamond shop. D’ racket is this: Of course it takes a bit of dough, but that’s no drawback, for d’ Rat is always on velvet an’ dead strong. As I say, d’ play is this: D’ Rat being well dressed an’ fitted up wit’ his cork-soles, his goggles an’ his wig, comes hobblin’ into d’ diamond joint an’ gives d’ impression he’s some rich old mark who ain’t got a t’ing but money, an’ that he’s out to boin a small bundle be way of matchin’ a spark which he has wit’ him in his mit. D’ Rat fills d’ diamond man up wit’ a yarn, how he’s goin’ to saw a brace of ear-rings off on his daughter an’ needs d’ secont rock, see! Of course it’s a dead case of string. D’ Rat ain’t got no kid, an’ would be d’ last bloke to go festoonin’ her wit’ diamonds if he had.
“Naturally, d’ mut who owns d’ store is out an’ eager to do business. D’ Rat won’t let d’ diamond man do d’ matchin’; not on your life! he’s goin’ to mate them sparks himself. So he gives d’ stiff wit’ d’ store d’ tip to spread a handful of stones, say about d’ size of d’ one he’s holdin’ in his hooks – which mebby is a 2-carat – on some black velvet for him to pick from. D’ diamond party ain’t lookin’ for no t’row down from an old sore-eyed, cork-sole hobo like d’ Rat, so he lays out a sprinklin’ of stones. D’ Rat, who all this time is starring his bum lamps, an’ tellin’ how bad an’ weak dey be, an’ how he can hardly see, gets his map down dost to d’ lay-out of sparks, so as he can get onto em an’ make d’ match.
“It’s now d’ touch comes in. When d’ Rat’s got his smeller right among d’ diamonds, he sticks out his tongue, quick like a toad for a honey-bee, an’ nails a gem. That’s what dey calls ‘dampin’ a diamond.’ Yes, mebby if there’s so many of ‘em laid out, he t’inks d’ mark behint d’ show case will stan’ for it wit’out missin’ ‘em, d’ Rat gets two. Then d’ Rat goes on jollyin’ an’ chinnin’ wit’ d’ sparks in his face; an’ mebby for a finish an’ to put a cover on d’ play, he buys one an’ screws his nut.
“Wit’ his cab, as I says, d’ Rat is miles away, an’ has time to shed his wig an’ goggles an’ cork-sole before d’ guy wit’ d’ diamonds tumbles to it he’s been done. That’s how d’ Rat gets in his woik. Now I’ll tell youse how d’ Central Office people t’run d’ harpoon into him.
“One day d’ Rat makes a play an’ gets two butes. He tucks ‘em away in back of his teet’, an’ is just raisin’ his nut to say somethin’, when d’ store duck grabs him an’ raises a roar. Two or t’ree cloiks an’ a cop off d’ street comes sprintin’ up, an’ away goes d’ Rat to d’ coop.
“Wit ‘d’ foist yell of d’ sucker who makes d’ front for d’ store – naw, he ain’t d’ owner, he’s one of d’ cloiks – d’ Rat goes clean outside of d’ sparks at a gulp; swallows ‘em; that’s what he does. There bein’ no diamond toined up, an’ no one at headquarters bein’ onto him – for he’s always laid low an’ kept out of sight of d’ p’lice – d’ Rat makes sure dey’ll have to t’run him loose.
“But d’ boss cop is pretty cooney. He figgers it all out, how d’ Rat’s a crook, an’ how he’s eat d’ diamonds, just as I says. So he cons d’ Rat an’ t’rows a dream into him. He tells him there’ll be no trouble, but he’ll have to keep him for an hour or two until his ‘sooperior off’cer,’ as he calls him, gets there. He’s d’ main squeeze, this p’lice dub dey’re waitin’ for, an’ as soon as he shows up an’ goes over d’ play, d’ Rat can screw out.
“That’s d’ sort of song an’ dance d’ high cop gives d’ Rat; an’ say! I’m a lobster if d’ Rat don’t fall to it, at that. On d’ dead! this p’lice duck is so smooth an’ flossy d’ Rat believes him.
“Just for appearances d’ Rat registers a big kick; an’ then – for dey don’t lock him up at all – he plants himself in a easy chair to do a toin of wait. D’ Rat couldn’t have broke an’ run for it, even if he’d took d’ scare, for d’ cops is all over d’ place. But he ain’t lookin’ for d’ woist of it nohow. He t’inks it’s all as d’ boss cop has told him; he’ll wait there an hour or two for d’ main guy an’ then dey’ll cut him free.
“After a half hour d’ boss cop says: ‘It’s no use you bein’ hungry, me frien’, an’ as I’m goin’ to chew, come wit’ me an’ feed your face. D’ treat’s on me, anyhow, bein’ obliged to detain a respect’ble old mucker like you. So come along.’
“Wit’ that d’ Rat goes along wit ‘d’ boss cop, an’ all d’ time he’s t’inkin’ what a Stoughton bottle d’ cop is.
“It’s nex’ door, d’ chop-house is. D’ cop an ‘d’ Rat sets down an’ breasts up to d’ table. Dey gives d’ orders all right, all right. But say! d’ grub never gets to ‘em. D’ nex’ move after d’ orders, d’ Rat, who’s got a t’irst on from d’ worry of bein’ lagged, takes a drink out of a glass.
“‘I’m poisoned!’ yells d’ Rat as he slams down d’ tumbler; ‘somebody’s doped me!’ an’ wit’ that d’ Rat toins in, t’rows a fit, an’ is seasick to d’ limit.
“That’s what that boss cop does. He sends over an’ doctors a glass while d’ Rat is settin’ in his office waitin’, an’ then gives him a bluff about chewin’ an’ steers d’ Rat ag’inst it. Say! it was a dandy play. D’ dope or whatever it was, toins me poor friend d’ Rat inside out, like an old woman’s pocket.
“An’ them sparks is recovered.
“Yes, d’ Rat does a stretch. As d’ judge sentences him, d’ Rat gives d’ cop who downs him his mit. ‘You’re a wonder,’ says d’ Rat to d’ cop; ‘there’s no flies baskin’ in d’ sun on you. When I reflects on d’ way you sneaks d’ chaser after them sparks, an’ lands ‘em, I’m bound to say d’ Central Office mugs are onto their job.’”
