A High-Stakes Gamble at the Front Street Poker Table

Last night a man who had been playing for four or five hours at a faro table in a saloon on Front Street said in a quiet, desperate tone to the dealer, as he laid his last dollar worth of checks on the tray, 'If I lose that, I’ll blow my brains out.' There was a bolt in that gambling room where many are gathered nightly for the chance of winning gold. Youths were there with the excitement of the game, but they drew back at the awful threat, and old gamblers cast an eye of dread upon the player. The gay merriment which almost always rings through the group of gamblers was hushed. The long, thin fingers of the dealer trembled. His mouth twitched nervously. The jaw of the intending suicide dropped, and his tray was held unsteadily by the nervous hand. Slowly the cards were thrown from the little silver box. The life of the weary man hung upon the turn of a card. It slid swiftly to the dealer's fingers. It was the last card. One could behold with one swift glance of torture, he turned and muttered to a friend in a husky whisper, 'Jack, lend me a dollar.' The faithful friend pulled the dollar out, and as he slid the four-bit check on the table, the suicide passed out, and fled off for a plate of oysters.