The Birmingham age-herald., 1916-01-23
MR. FAVERSHAM, THE HAWK"-THE GAME IS ! ON: A A"REVIEW-PORTRATT," NOT "INTERVIEW"I
By DOLLY DALRYMPLE

Mir. Faversham; "The Hawk" the game is-on!
 Smoke hangs heavily upon the air and there is faint, almost musical "click of the chips"
 Three men and a woman are play ing at poker it is a game of high hopes and high stakes, and about it all hangs the dress suited, white-bosomed air of gentility.
 The rather stout gentleman, whose fortune is measured only by the limi- tations of his working day and active brain, slowly, steadily, calmly fits his five cards into place and gazes upon them as a monk might at his cruci- fix.
 The evil one watches him covertly out of the corners of his cat eyes; he is hungry and thirsty for the golden blood of him; his glance concentrates upon the snug lines of his clean, man ly face; those lines were cut deep into the skin by the mad,. tumultuous lad venture of the daily grind" he is hon est and his prey.
 For moment he hesitates; the wom- an at his right is white and weak and brittle like stick candy: her breath beats down hot with perturbation upon the palm of his hand, as he deals the cards; is the strength of her gone?
 
 against him by-fate?
 The crisis is here; flames of crim- son and ruby flash across his dim and ever changing horizon.
 Ye gods, it's over, and-and-they've won.
 He is aware of a sudden frail, per- fumed form drawing apart from him as if he were a yellow scourge.
 The American arises; ponderous, smiling, game and then-then-for the first time the evil one is aware that an orchestra is playing somewhere in the distance--a nearby room-and the open window is pouring a living flood of night air against his cheek!
 His life is the polished face of the Roulette wheel his days are chips and dancing figures, and rain of white and blue and red squares like hideous con- fetti never still, showers always before his eyes in a brilliant cloud; there are no peaceful moments; times relentless glass sits not sand-but-cards-inev able, ruffling, whispering, cards; they even drown to nothingness the voice of the soul-sicl1 woman; her caresses, her pleadinss and her prayers for the holy change that is to reincarnate him thIoCsfo out a thousand years! Look at him. He is ''chance; wine is in his veins; the very air he breathes is in- fected it will pollute-drag down-eXist- upon that which, lost to all others, leaves them less poor than-sinful! He is known to all men as a bird of 0crafty talons, and keen perceptions, and from his refuge in her soft arms he .scans his little feeding ground and he is the eagle only in the sureness of his flight and the rugged strength behind his sorry conquests!
 No-no; do not take his hand; it is 8cold and wet with the icy sweat of the gambler; drugs shine in his wide eager seyes; he is running the long gamut of mans un-hoy passions; you had best lpass him by; he is unworthy! He is the dronng song of the dice; he lis the murmur of the dealt cards; he is lthe soft purr of the spinning dial; he is the rattle of the small ivory ball; he is the wash of human wreckage on the shore of Monte Carle at High Tide! He is-"The Hawk!''
 And yet-and yet-one holy thing-one asrark of beauteous lighl-gleams beacon slike through every phase fhis opaque alurid emations-the intending, everlasting love of the woman who is his-wife; and always -alwaysthe leit motif is heard- 'faintly, yet insistently-the plantive vail las of solitary and sombre waldhorn-- ldomina ting, all else; 1t sf "Fe jestes-me jage-zan famienes"