There is a pride often associated with those who have known poverty, a pride that can be the result of stubborn pigheadedness rather than stemming from anything noble.
Logan Macintyre possessed just such a pride, however mixed it was with a colored sense of morality. He would make his own way in the world whatever it took. No handouts for him. He would rather “earn” his money in a poker game, employing questionable methods of skill, than to take a few shillings from a sympathetic friend. Even with Molly and Skittles, he had adroitly turned their acts of charity toward him into situations of mutual benefit. If they fed him when he was penniless, he reasoned that they needed his youth and energy in order to make their various schemes successful.
Thus, when Logan assessed his meager finances immediately following Allison’s invitation, he found them sorely wanting for the necessities he supposed such an occasion would require. To ask Alec, the only likely candidate, for the loan of a tuxedo was out of the question. Not only was Alec several sizes larger than Logan, but it would have been too degrading to attend such an affair in a borrowed suit. Logan was extremely conscious of appearances. What money he had possessed had always gone toward the very best in attire. His tailor in London was reputed to have outfitted the Duke of Marlborough at one time. These things were important to Logan.
Unfortunately, he did not just now have the funds to meet these standards. But he did know where he might quickly acquire them. So the next evening found him at Hamilton’s place, around a coarse table with several of his recent acquaintances, among them Buckie, a few other fishers, and a farmer or two. The stakes were not high, but he needed to raise only ten or fifteen pounds, and that should be possible. So confident was Logan of his success that he had already made arrangements with a tailor in Aberdeen for a fitting, and had requested the following day off from his employment at Stonewycke.
Buckie dealt the first hand, and bets were laid on the table.
Ale and pleasant conversation, however trivial, mingled with the business of poker. It was a congenial, easygoing group; none were apt to flare up angrily at their companions. Logan played a straight game, not caring whether he won or lost, just making sure he kept his stake in readiness for the real game, which would come later. He was simply lubricating the pursestrings for the time being.
Tonight Logan had a difficult time making himself forget how much he liked these simple country folks. It was especially hard to forget that Buckie had helped save his life. He would make it up to them all, he reminded himself. Now, he had to have the money, and this was the only way he knew to get it. He’d give them all a more than fair chance to win every shilling back later. But his once-benumbed conscience had been raising it’s head more often of late, and it took more than a concerted effort to squelch its insistent reminders that what he was about to do was wrong.
“I’m rather tired of poker,” he said at length, leaning back in his chair with a yawn. “What about something else?”
“What did ye have in mind, mate?” asked one of the men.
“You ever hear of Glasgow Red Dog?”
“Canna say I have.”
“Any of the rest of you?” asked Logan, looking around the table.
They all shook their heads.
“It’s simple enough really. And everyone makes just as much money as he wants. You’re not even playing against each other, in a manner of speaking.”
“Sounds too easy,” said Buckie, with a skeptical expression.
“It is! But it’s a good way to make a lot of money. That is, if you’re sharp. But everyone’s playing with the same chances. Shall I explain it?”
Shrugs and nods followed. Logan pulled out the cards Jesse had given him.
“Here, Buckie,” said Logan, “try it. I’ll deal you five cards, just like in poker.” He did so. “Now, you look at your hand, and if you think you can beat the card I’m about to turn up, in the same suit, then you place a big bet, anywhere from a shilling up to the size of the pot. If you win, you collect the amount of your bet from the pot on the table. If you lose, your bet stays on the table.”
Buckie surveyed his cards. He had a queen, a jack, two nines, and a six.
“What do you have?” asked Logan. Buckie laid his cards down on the table. “Well, that’s a fair hand, Buckie, but not great. What do you think your chances are of beating this top card in the same suit?”
“I dinna ken,” said Buckie slowly. “I’d say, maybe fifty-fifty.”
“And how much would you bet?” asked Logan.
“I’d say a shillin’.”
“Well, then, let’s see how you’d have fared.” Logan turned over the top card of the deck. “An eight of clubs. Your nine of clubs wins. You would then take a shilling out of the pot . . . or however much you had bet.”
Nods of approval and general laughter spread around the table.
“What do you all say?”
“Let’s gi’ yer game a try,” said Buckie.
“Okay,” said Logan. “Everyone put in a shilling to start. Then from now on you can bet from a shilling to whatever’s on the table.”
Each tossed a shilling into the middle of the table and Logan dealt each man five cards. Each then took their turn betting, all starting with shilling bets, followed by Logan’s displaying the top card off the deck against each hand. Two of the men won, four lost, including Logan; as the second round began, the pot stood at eight shillings, and Logan passed the deck to Buckie.
“Your deal,” he said, and the game continued.
With every successive hand the pot grew larger, occasionally dwindling temporarily when a five or ten shilling bet was won, but steadily rising. With every hand, Logan’s bet remained the same—one shilling—never varying.
At the end of an hour, the table contained some four pounds.
It was now the turn of a farmer by the name of Andy McClennon. He surveyed his hand for some time, obviously in doubt, then looked at his own money in front of him, an amount of about four and a half pounds. The cards in his hands were good ones, and at length he said, “I bet the size o’ the pot!”
Exclamations followed and raised eyebrows. It was the first such bet that had been made.
“The size o’ the pot, man. Ye’re loony!” said Buckie.
“I got nothin’ smaller than a ten, Buckie, an’ three faces!” said Andy excitedly. “Hoo can I lose?”
The dealer turned over the jack of hearts. Andy’s face fell.
“Blimey!” he shouted in a disgusted voice, throwing down his ten of hearts onto the table. “The one low suit I had!”
“Sorry, Andy,” said Logan, and general condolences were mumbled around the table.
By this time, with the judicious use of his stake money and his slight winnings from the preliminary poker game, Logan had slowly boosted his cash to approximately five pounds. For the next several rounds the mood at the table was subdued, each man greedily eyeing the money on the table, but at the same time somewhat sobered by Andy’s plight. Three hands later, the first of the moments Logan had been waiting for had come. Having carefully scrutinized every card on the table before him, and holding an ace, two kings, a jack and a nine, he knew there was only one card still out—the queen of diamonds—which could beat his hand—his own nine of diamonds. Deciding the risk to be worth it, he took the chance.
“I bet four pounds,” Logan announced.
“That’s nearly all ye got in front o’ ye, Logan,” reminded Buckie.
“Ye done nothin’ but one shillin’ bets all the game,” said Jimmy, hardly hiding his perplexity.
“Just a difference in styles, I guess,” said Logan.
“An’ yet noo ye’re layin’ doon four pounds!”
“This is just my time to live dangerously,” said Logan with a laugh. “Come on, Andy, turn up the card.”
Andy flipped over the top card—a king of spades. Logan’s black ace was higher.
“If that don’t beat all!” exclaimed Jimmy. “It’s like he knew what was comin’ all along.”
“You all saw that Andy was dealing me straight,” said Logan, gathering in his winnings, leaving eight pounds in front of him, and only four in the center of the table.
Disbelieving shakes of the head followed. However, concurrent with Andy’s dejection were several eyes twinkling with renewed enthusiasm. If Logan could do it—and they all saw that the game was fair—so could any one of them. And there was still plenty of money to win. Logan had been right. You could win just as much as you wanted.
Once again bets of five or ten shillings began to flow, with now and then a one-pounder thrown in. The size of the pot ebbed and flowed, steadily rising over the course of time. And once again, hand after hand Logan’s bet remained the same—a single shilling.
Still he bided his time, waiting for another opportunity, watching the cards being played like a hawk, memorizing each as it was displayed, then carefully eyeing his own hand. He now had enough in front of him to go for broke—when the right moment came. He could not be over-anxious. He couldn’t even risk it if a single card was out. He’d have to wait for what Skittles always called a lead-pipe cinch.
After another hour, the moment came. His own stash stood at about eight and a half pounds. The pot was now something slightly over seven.
The hand he’d been dealt was not all that strong on the surface of it—a king, two jacks, a ten, and a seven. It happened, however, that as Jimmy, immediately to his right, was dealing, he was the last man to play. Therefore, when time for his bet came, twenty-four cards were displayed on the table. With his own five, more than half the deck was known to him. Every heart above his seven of hearts was out, as were all the spades over his ten, and so on.
When his turn came, therefore, Logan was confident.
“I bet the size of the pot!”
“Ow!” whistled Jimmy. “Not again! Logan, ye’ll put us oot o’ the game!”
“Or maybe myself!” suggested Logan with a wry grin.
“Somehow I doobt that,” said Andy sarcastically. He didn’t exactly think this clever fellow from London was cheating. But he didn’t like the idea of his betting nothing but one shilling until . . . wham!—the pot was suddenly empty.
“Weel . . . what’ll it be, Jimmy?” said Buckie, anxious to get on with it.
Slowly and dramatically Jimmy lifted the card and threw it down in front of Logan.
“Ten o’ diamonds!” exclaimed Buckie. “Tough t’ beat, Logan!”
“Not for a king of diamonds,” returned Logan, laying down his entire hand on the table beside the ten.
“Somehow I knowed it!” said Andy. “I jist knowed it!”
“Weel, lad,” said Buckie, with a sigh, “I guess that’s the end o’ this game, seein’ as hoo Logan has all oor hard-earned cash.” They all began to rise, and Buckie gave Logan a friendly slap on the back. “Ye’re the luckiest bloke I e’er seen!”
“I’d be happy to give you fellows a chance to get even,” offered Logan, stuffing the sixteen or so pounds—mostly in coin—into the pockets of his coat.
Buckie laughed. “Na doobt . . . na doobt! But ye always seem t’ come oot on top!”
“Like you said,” replied Logan, “I guess I’m just lucky.”
“An’ I already dipped sorely int’ this week’s grocery cash,” Buckie went on. “I’ll hae the de’vil t’ pay wi’ me wife as’t is.”
Logan could not keep a pang of guilt from rising, but he quickly dismissed it with the thought, I’ll make it up to you fellows. Just you wait and see. I’ll find that treasure, and I’ll do right by you all.
Andy McClennon, dour of disposition and in much less friendly tones than the others, added, “Seems t’ me ye made fairly certain we’d no hae the means t’ get e’en wi’ ye.”
“I can assure you—” Logan began, but Buckie did not give him the opportunity to finish.
“Come on, Andy,” he said, laying a hand on the poor crofter’s shoulder. “Dinna be a sore loser. ’Twas a fair game. We all knew what we was gettin’ int’. Logan’s as guid a man as one o’ oor own, an’ I’ll be hearin’ nae different. Noo, what aboot those drinks ye mentioned, Logan?”
“What! I mentioned no drinks.”
“Dinna they do that in London?” said Buckie, winking knowingly at Jimmy. “Why, here in Strathy, man, the winner buys fer e’eryone!”
Logan laughed heartily. “Well, you’ve got me there, my friend,” he said, glad to be able to buy his way graciously out of the potentially awkward situation with only a few pints.
The laughter and Buckie’s good sportsmanship seemed to appease any further unrest, except perhaps in Logan’s inexperienced conscience. Rising and shoving their chairs back, the rest of the group ambled over to refill their glasses, for Roy was not in the habit of serving his guests at their tables unless absolutely necessary. Bringing up the rear, Logan passed the small table where a lone customer sat, quietly sipping a brandy. Catching Logan’s eye, he gave him a sly half grin.
“Those yokels don’t even know what hit them,” said Ross Sprague in a soft, almost conspiratorial tone.
“What do you mean by that?” asked Logan in a tone made more defensive by the guilt he was trying to repress. “There was nothing crooked about that game. We all had the same chance.”
“Except that you knew the game. I can spot a sharp a mile off.” But as Logan opened his mouth to speak, Sprague held up his hand. “Oh, don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me.”
“To what do I owe that honor?”
“You and me live by the same motto, young fellow,” Sprague replied. “It was stated very succintly by an American actor, W. C. Fields: ‘Never give a sucker an even break.’ Why, you had that game in the palm of your hand. That last hand—you couldn’t lose! Well done, I must say.”
Logan shrugged noncommitally. “Leave it to an American to sum it up so well.” He started forward once more.
“Have a drink on me, kid,” Sprague called after him.
Logan nodded his thanks, but after the encounter, his ale did not taste very good. He didn’t like to think of friends like Buckie as “suckers.” He didn’t like to think that he might live by such a motto, even if he had never quite put it in those words. And since he didn’t like to think of such things, he didn’t.
Instead, he poured more than his usual measure of Hamilton’s foul-tasting brew down his throat, and for the time at least, it dimmed the pangs of his conscience.
He didn’t return home that night.
Somehow the thought of that unaffected loft where his simple, honest ancestor had dwelt was not appealing to Logan just then. Instead, he staggered up the street, where Sandy Cobden, against his better judgment, rented him a bed for the night. Logan made his way up the stairs weak-kneed, fell upon the bed, and drifted into a restless sleep, filled with the kind of dreams dragons might have while perched upon their ill-gotten treasures. In fact, at one point a dragon came into his dream, dressed in a grand tuxedo, with a plain fisher wife on his arm, carrying in her other hand an empty basket, which he knew had been intended for groceries.
But even in his sleep, when the dragon turned his direction, Logan shut the eyes of his mind even tighter, refusing to look at its face.