Ten days that little game of ours prospered. Then, unheralded, one night at the hour of nine, the officer into whose yearning palm Terry or I had deposited each and every night at the hour of eight, and stealthily, the meager sum of two dollars, closed our doors and projected us into the august presence of His Honor, the mayor.
We were held for court then in session. Ere another two suns had sunk beneath the hills that fringed the western rim, the Grand Jury had us indicted. We pleaded guilty. The judge was an adept at knowing what the traffic would bear. He fined us two hundred and fifty each, accepting my stop watch, worth three hundred, for the twenty dollars we were short; and suspended sentence. In reference to our future, he advised most kindly; and gave us three hours to relieve the country of the "odium" of our presence. The cynosure of eyes choleric, eyes contemptuous, and eyes commiserating, we slunk from the court house. With an hour to spare, we hurried over the county line.
Again you see Terrence O'Chance and Dave Hazard, misanthropes, wilted, leg-weary, and barren of funds, plodding disconsolately over the somber surface of the Black Horse Pike.
"'Tis a foine pass we've come to when two dacent respectable gamblers can't ply their trade without bein' persecuted be a bunch of rubes that couldn't tell a full house from low casino," mourned Terry.
"We rave about Rooshia and the Jews but, in me own opinion: 'Charity begins at home.' It's got so a man can't participate in a game of penny ante in the gintle warmth of his own foireside without some self-appointed eradicator of vice reportin' the incident to the police. The country's gone to the divil."
"Professional jealousy, Terry," I explained. "The pirates of finance have it on us. With wealth on their side, they're out to eliminate competition. What chance have honest men like us against them?"
"Niver a monad," said Terry. "But there's wan little oasis in this desert of persecution. Down on the boardwalk, the other day, a chap was tellin' me about it. It lies south of the Mason & Dixon line.
"Makin' powder for the allies is the chafe industry.
"Pick and shovel men recave four dollars a day; and the poor unfortunates are rakin' their brains for conganial ways of partin' with it. Law and order would be as welcome as roaches in Mrs. Rohrer's kitchen. There's only wan first-class game of chance in the town, too, and it don't begin to handle the patronage. Be golly, Dave, if we had a hundred dollars, we'd go down there, and soon be lopin' along on the road to filthy opulence."
"One hundred dollars!" I laughed bitterly. "If we had fifty cents right now, we wouldn't be dining on raw turnips and tomatoes, believe me. If we don't reach Philadelphia shortly, we'll be stricken with acute indigestion from worry and lack of proper food." Just then, as a touring car rushed past, some one in it threw a folded newspaper. It took Terry on the side of the head, and ricocheted sharply
