Yorkville enquirer. [volume] (Yorkville, S.C.) 1855-2006, 1900-11-07
sypA1H TO RUIN.
The Crap Cane Leads Ia That Humble d..
reetlon.

reetion.
Quarter"
"Got It,"
II got dime Of IT.
mo. you ANTI got It ALL"
Come seben, come eleben! Got 'em
for q nachul!"
My friend has induced me to learn
how to shoot craps and knowing, dear
lady, that for the simple reason that
you really ought not to know anything
about such affairs, am perfectly con-
fident that you would like to know ex-
actly how it is; and to many the fav-
ors Of tickle fortune with the bones are
more to be desired than wisdom.
For wisdom may perchance be ac-
quired, but the successful crap shooter
|-"nascitur, non fit,"-that Is to say, II
1t does not at once become the dearest
object Of his affection. 1t is hardly like
ly that he will make expenses. A GER
tain amount Of wisdom will likely be
acquired while he Is at 1t, but that is j,
not one OF the essentials. These are,
briefly: q pair Of bones, companions
BILE crowd, q secluded spot, and a little
more than enough dust.
The game has begun, and my friend
takes up a good position, while look
over his shoulder.
Dime"
"Got you"
Rattle, rattle, rattle. My friend Che.
was the one who "gof it'') Is watching
the other closely.
Here, shake 'em." he commands
tersely.
I'm shakin' 'em," responds the 9TH
er in an aggrieved tone.
"No. you ain't-ah, would your" and
my friend snatches the dice quickly. as
they roll innocently over the bed cover
ing. For mind you, my lady, the idea
that simple luck is the only element in
craps is as exploded as the Spanish
navy.
Rattle. rattle. rattle. 1t sounds all
right.
There they are. One Is q FIVE. the
other SIX. My friends ten cents
moves rapidly across the quilt, and he
grasps the ivories.
FIFTY cent6!" ne exclatmg.
"Covered," I" from my left.
Rattle. shake. rattle. Two fyes.
Look at Big Dick" says the erst-
while opponent.
My friend looks indignant. He must
(by some combination throw ten again
before he throws seven.
Comm Dick!' he exclaims; but Lit
tie Joe rolls ont, two twos, or any other
combination that makes four.
Shake, rattle, shake.
up jumps the devil!" announces an
other player This, learn, is popu-
lar method to induce the appearance Of
q seven.
I look at my friend again. His face
Is indicative Of intense disgust. The
devil has jumped.
Round the circle they go. The air Is
filed with strange jargon, urintelligi-
bic. mysterious.
Baby wants new Dress" squealed
a dark-faced fellow suddenly.
Zone To- calls two" exclaims another
"Got telegram from home!" cries
third, delighted. He was throwing for
nine and the dice had just come eight.
This is telegram.
The air Is redolent Of cigarette smoke.
Dim, blue spirals twist themselves up
to the ceiling and there Is a silvery tim
kle as q pile of ten-cent pieces topple
over.
my bones!" exclaims the dark-faced
fellow. Here's five-dollar bill"
Take 1t ALL" says another voice.
I look at the speaker. He is young
too young for the rest Of the crowd.
His face Is flushed, and his eyes sparkle
strangely. He throws down a so bill.
The other throws. It is seven.
Five in It," he says quietly. The
boy mods, restlessly.
Five more?"
Again the dice rattle. The other
players stand aside. The stakes are too
high.
Take the bill," mutters the lad.
"Come on-Tve got to win sometime"
The big fellows looks at him, not un-
kindly.
you better quit, boy" he says quiet
ly.
What's it to you?" cries the boy an
grily. Make It ten dollars!"
Rattle, rattle, rattle. A three and a
two. The lads eyes brighten. Surely
he must not lose now! God-if he
should!
Shake, rattle, shake. Seven and
three. Rattle, rattle. Two and two.
The room is silent now. Some one
asks in whisper for a match. The
game goes on. It is life and death, or
rather honor or dishonor for the boy
now. He has not meant to 60 into that
money, but
Rattle, rattle, rattle.
I've won," says the big fellow, calm
ly.
The lad gets up, dazed. A queer look
comes into his eyes.
Here, take it back. kid" says the
other. Some other time will do"
But the boys shakes his head. He
staggers a moment.
Good night" he says, almost under
his breath, ana we hear him going
down the hall.
That is the story Of it. my lady.
Pleasure and pain, the same old tale,
told over and over again. It's not the
game: it's what the men make It,
Frank Sharp in Atlanta Daily News.
sT Mother-I wish you would rake up
the dead leaves in the yard. Small
tn m