Checkers: A Hard-luck Story

"Yours till death – and as long after as they need me at the morgue.

"EDWARD CAMPBELL."

Occasionally I met Richmond and asked him how Checkers was doing. "Not badly," was the usual answer. "He is handicapped, though," explained Richmond one day, "by not thoroughly knowing our goods and those of other houses. After this trip I shall put him to work in the store again for a while."

But this never occurred. Either by mistake or through a serious error in judgment, Checkers sold an unusually large bill at an absurdly low figure. This brought a sharp reproof from the house, which he answered cavalierly. His recall and prompt dismissal followed.

A month elapsed before I saw him. He had been trying to get another position before coming to me, for his pride was lowered. One morning he came in looking careworn and threadbare. I welcomed him cordially, as usual. But though neither of us referred to his recent misfortune, it caused an evident embarrassment in his manner. After a few moments' desultory conversation he drew a letter from his pocket. "Read that," he said simply, handing it to me. With difficulty I read what seemed to be a letter from Mr. Barlow, his father-in-law. In effect it set forth that he was now alone. Mrs. Barlow was dead, and her last dying request had been that he find Checkers and restore to him his own. This he had solemnly promised to do. He complained that he was "poorly" himself, and expected to be carried off at any time, with "a misery in his chest." And he went on to say that if Checkers had not married again (perish the thought!), and would come back and live with him and take care of him, he would make him his heir to the old place as well, and to what little else he had to leave. He "did n't bear no grudge" for the loss of the house, as things had turned out – he "liked a lad of sperrit." However, whether he found Checkers or not, "the preacher and them whited sepulchers" at the church "should never finger a cent of what he left." There followed a tirade which seemed to show that the church people had made it hot for the old man after Checkers' departure, and doubtless more so after the death of Mrs. Barlow.

"What do you think?" asked Checkers as I finished.

"Think! I think it's the best of good fortune."

"Yes; with a horrible string tied to it. Of course I want my place back; but I 'd rather be hung than go back to Clarksville."

"Stuff and nonsense!" I exclaimed.

"Yes; everything is; what is n't 'stuff' is nonsense. But, say, the funniest thing of all is that he seems to think I burnt up the house. How do you suppose he got such a notion?" This with a laughable expression of innocence.

"Isn't it possible, Checkers," I said, "that this letter is a ruse to get you down there and have you arrested for arson?"

He thought a moment. "No," he replied; "I hardly think so. No judge or jury down there would convict me, anyhow, when they heard the facts – still, it's about his size. If I had a little money I would n't need to be in a hurry. There 's some friends of mine got a bottled-up 'good thing' they 're going to 'turn loose' next week, that's a 'mortal' – 'Bessie Bisland' – she 'll back in. If I had about fifty I 'd win a lot of money, quit gamblin', and wait till the old man croaked."

"Checkers!"

"Still, that might be risky; these old guys 'take notice' again scand'lous quick. While I was foolin' around some Arkansas fairy might get in and nail down my little job."

"Yes," I laughed; "upon all accounts, the quicker you get there the better."

Checkers closed one eye and fixed the other on a spot in the ceiling. "I wonder," he murmured, "how the walking is between here and Clarksville?"

"Checkers," I said, "are you broke again?"

"If you can find the price of a car ride on me, I 'll give it to you – and I 'll help you hunt."

"Checkers, your acquaintance has been expensive for me," I said soberly. "I suppose now you want me to give you the money to take you to Clarksville."

"Mr. Preston!" he exclaimed, with an earnest expression, "I don't want you to give me anything. All the money I 've had from you has been borrowed. I 've kept a strict tab on it, and I intend to repay it. My farm down there is worth $20,000; when I get that back I 'll be 'in the heart of town.' But I don't want to go back looking like a 'hobo,' and I 've got to have some money 'to make a front with.' I could write the old man that I 'm flat, and get him to send me some money easy enough. But that would give him the upper hand of me, and queer me on the start. If I drop in unexpectedly, looking as though I had money to throw to the birds, he 's likely to 'unbelt' right away, and I 'll send you your stuff the minute I get it."

Well, the upshot of it all was that I advanced to Checkers what he needed – within reason. He consumed nearly a week in making his preparations; but in the mean time I suggested that he advise Mr. Barlow and Judge Martin of his coming. When the day finally arrived he insisted that I dine with him before his departure; but I had an engagement, and was forced to refuse. We compromised, however, on a modest luncheon, during which I advised him earnestly and well.

"Now, Checkers," I said, before bidding him farewell, "you are about to begin a new life; be a man, settle down, and make some good resolutions."

"I have," he said. "It'll take me a year to live down those I have made already. Just think of Bessie Bisland running this afternoon and me with not a nickel on her."

"And, Checkers," I said, "you must school yourself to endure what may come, however unpleasant. Treat the old man well – it won't be for long; and remember what it means to you in the future. When you get your property, whether soon or late, keep it, or rent it, and live within your income."

"You bet I will," he replied, "and I believe I 'll hire three or four little sleuths to go round with me all the time, and see that nobody 'does' me."

"Have Judge Martin advise you," I said. "He doubtless knows the law; and write to me when you are settled – I shall be interested." I clasped his hand warmly in one of mine, and rested my other upon his shoulder. "And now good-bye, my boy," I said; "you have had a long run of hard luck, and I am glad that fortune is about to smile upon you again. Quit gambling; watch your opportunities and make the best of them as they come. Good-bye."

"Good-bye, Mr. Preston. What you say is no 'song without words,' and I 'll remember it. I have had hard luck, and, no matter what comes, I can never be as happy as I 've been in the past. But we all have our troubles, and I 'll try to make the best of things, like the old crone who had only two teeth, but she said 'Thank God, they hit!' Good-bye."

Again we shook hands and parted silently, taking opposite directions.

Ten days have passed, and I have not heard from Checkers – it is doubtless still a little early.

The morning after we parted I chanced to see in the paper that "Bessie Bisland" "also ran." It is quite as well, therefore, that Checkers did not defer his going, but went that night.