Some years ago a sport called McCormick kept a flourishin’ faro bank in West Twenty-seventh street, and he had an iron dog in front of his door, a large, handsome iron dog, elaborately painted, which served at once as an ornament and a sort of a sign. Strangers in town got to know the place by the dog in front of it. There used to be a joke goin’ round, “beware of the dog,” and chaff of that kind. Altogether, in its way that iron dog was a kind of local Institution. It so happened that a retired tradesman, a deacon of a church, lived two or three doors from McCormick’s gamin’ house. He had two maiden sisters, ugly lookin’, prim, but really tender-hearted old maids, who, havin’ no men of their own to look after, considered it their mission to look after the moral and spiritual condition of the friendless young men of the metropolis. The deacon and especially his sisters, were interested in various schemes for suppressin’ theatres, and abolishin’ the use of whiskey and tobacco, and other easy and practical (?) undertakin’s, and it can be readily understood with what horror they regarded the proximity of the gamin’ house.
Well, one New Year’s eve, some of the rollickin’ members of the Blossom Club, embracing among other kindred spirits Sheridan Shook, Sol Sayles, Tommy Lynch, Ned Gilmore and Foster Dewey–who were always ready for a lark–at about eleven o’clock happened to pass McCormick’s place. Here an idea struck ‘em, and struck ‘em hard. I think it was either Tommy Lynch or Ned Gilmore proposed it, but at any rate it was seconded at once, carried unanimously, and went into effect immediately.
Rushin’ up the steps quickly but cautiously, they removed the iron dog from his familiar post, and transferred his dogship to the front of the irascible deacon’s door and left him there.
That evenin’ there were two countrymen in town, two farmers, brothers from Central New York somewheres, who had been seeing the sights, and who, of course, wanted to “buck against the tiger.” They had been told about McCormick’s place, and had been posted about recognizing it by the iron dog in front thereof.
About fifteen minutes to twelve or so, the two brothers, havin’ put in the early part of the night at a theatre, determined to put in the balance at the faro bank, and sought out McCormick’s, and found it, or at least the iron dog.
Recognizin’ the much talked of sign, the brothers confidently walked up the steps like men who had their passports in their pocketbooks, and pulled the bell. They were admitted readily enough.
That evenin’ bein’ New Year’s eve, the good sisters, altho’ their brother, the deacon, didn’t favor the scheme, had conceived the notion of holdin’ an “old fashioned” watch-meetin’, to pray the old year out and the new year in, as is sometimes even now done in the churches. The good ladies had accordingly invited not only some of their own friends, but had distributed some invitations at several “missions” or “homes” for young men, and it was thought, naturally enough, at first, that the two farmers, who looked like the strangers and countrymen they were, and who were both young, had come in response to these invitations.
They were therefore admitted and shown into the plainly furnished parlor, where they found a number of serious-lookin’ men and women assembled–sittin’ in silence–solemn, unbroken silence, it having just been proposed by some “brother” that the last fifteen minutes of the old year should be devoted to silent meditation.
Awed and amazed by this stillness, the two countrymen sat down and stared stupidly around ‘em. Anythin’ more different from their preconceived notions of a faro bank could not possibly be imagined than the scene now and here presented.
Where was the supper? Where was the layout? Where were the faro table and the roulette wheel? Where were the attendants and where was the dealer? Above all, what on earth were these women doin’ here?
The last question bothered the countrymen most of all. At last, the elder of the brothers solved it, to his own satisfaction at least. He had read in some paper about a gamblin’ house run by women in New York. They had happened to hit upon this identical place–so the elder brother assured the younger in a whisper. Yet certainly the two maiden sisters of the deacon looked as unlike boss gamblers of either sex as possible.
It was all a mystery and a conundrum, and the two countrymen wrestled with it till the clock in the hall struck twelve, and the rest of the assembled company rose, and shakin’ each other by the hands, exchanged the compliments of the new year.
The younger of the two maiden sisters, seein’ the countrymen standin’ in a corner, came up to ‘em, and extendin’ a hand to each, said, pleasantly, “A happy New Year to you, also.”
“Thank you kindly, ma’am,”stammered out one of the farmers; “same to you–but–but–” And here he broke down. “My brother,” said the other farmer, “meant to say that he’s very much obliged to you, to be sure; but–but when do you open your game?”
“Open our game?” repeated the good lady, in bewilderment.
“Yes, ma’am–your game,” said the farmer, gettin’ nettled. “My brother and I ain’t very fine to look at, maybe, like the city chaps you are accustomed to see in such a place as this–”
“‘Such a place as this’!” interrupted the lady, rollin’ up her eyes and bridlin’ up, but the countryman continued:
“We’ve got the stuff, though,” producin’ a well-filled wallet and displayin’ a roll of bills, “and we are ready to win more, or lose it all–accordin’ as the keards shall determine; but we want a squar’ game, ma’me. Neither my brother or me will stand any of your skin games, will we, Sam?”
Sam shook his head vigorously.
“Cards!” cried the horrified old lady, lookin’ as if she was ready to fall on the floor, as she really was.
“Yes, ‘cards’–if you are so particular about the word. Why, one would think you never heard of them articles before.” She looked for all the world as if she never had, and even the countrymen began to get the glimmer of an idea that there was some mistake. “Ain’t this,” he asked direct at last–”ain’t this a gamin’ house?”
“A ‘gaming house’!” shrieked the good old lady, and forthwith fainted.
A scene of confusion ensued, during which the brother and deacon came to the front. He was very fat, pompous and asthmatic, and at first mistook the two countrymen for thieves.
He was mad enough, while under this impression, and wheezed himself into a fever of wrath, but when he got a glimmerin’ of the real state of the case he got madder yet. He gasped for breath–he could not speak for rage. Finally he wheezed out: “What do you mean by takin’ this abode of peace and virtue for the very home of the devil?”
“What do you mean?” retorted the countryman addressed as “Sam,” “by misleadin’ strangers by that cussed dog of yours.”
“That dog of mine?” wheezed the Deacon. “What–what dog? There is no dog about this–this house. My sisters and myself hate dogs.”
“Then what the devil do you have one on your steps for?” asked Sam.
“On my steps–on the steps of–of this house?”
“Yes, right in front of your door. Look here,” said Sam, leadin’ the now thoroughly bewildered deacon to his own doorstep, followed by his family and friends, and pointin’ to the iron dog that crouched their motionless, and unconscious of the mischief he was makin’.
The deacon rubbed his eyes and then punched himself, to see if he was awake, but the cold night air and his wheezin’ convinced him that he was.
The deacon had lived long enough in the neighborhood to know all about McCormick’s iron dog, and had regarded it as the very symbol of Satan, and here he was on his own pious and respectable doorstep.
He could scarcely speak for mingled rage and asthma. But at last he managed to wheeze out a sort of explanation to the farmer that this was a trick of his wicked neighbors, the gamblers (for he attributed it, naturally, to McCormick) to annoy him, and that they had mistaken the place.
“In short, old man,” cried Sam, “we have come to the wrong shop for a game of faro.”
They had, indeed, and having listened to a lecture delivered by the now recovered maiden sister on the sin of gamblin’, the two countrymen made their lame apologies and withdrew, havin’ vainly endeavored to induce the asthmatic deacon to tell which of the houses in the block was the real McCormick’s, after all. But the deacon was no “steerer” or “capper.” He didn’t get any commission or percentage on the game. So the baffled countrymen went elsewhere to enjoy ‘emselves, leavin’ the deacon to wheeze and to resolve on goin’ for that wicked gambler neighbor of his for damages the next mornin’, or the day after.
The night passed on, and about two or three o’clock in the mornin’ some of “the gang” were thinkin’ about goin’ home, when one of the party–I think it was Shed Shook–felt a little conscious-stricken about havin’ played the dog joke on the deacon, proposed to remove the dog once more–at any rate to take it off the good deacon’s steps. His argument prevailed with the boys, who were good-natured in their larks, and at last a carriage was called and driven quietly near the deacon’s house. The dog was carried into the carriage and was driven off in charge of a delegation of the boys.
And then one of the boys made it a point to call upon McCormick and to let him know innocently that his dog, his pet dog, was missin’–had been stolen, probably. And shortly after another of the gang walked in upon McCormick and assured him that he had with his own eyes seen his dog that night on the deacon’s steps. And to this he pledged his word of honor.
Now McCormick was fully aware that his neighbor, the deacon, had done all he could to drive him out of the neighborhood, and hated him accordingly. He took it, therefore, for granted that the deacon had put up this job of the dog on him to annoy him, and he made up his mind that he would call upon the deacon and give him a piece of his mind bright and early the next mornin’, and get back his dog–perhaps press damages against the Deacon besides. Why not?
So before the deacon could get out of the house on New Year’s day to see about his wicked neighbor, the gambler, the latter was already pullin’ the door bell of his pious neighbor, the deacon.
The wheezin’ deacon saw before him in his hall a rather fine, but fast-lookin’ man, with a big diamond pin, and the general appearance of havin’ been up all night. He did not know the gambler personally; had never seen him face to face; so he waited for his early bird of a caller, who insisted so on seein’ him, to introduce himself.
“The first four words of the “introduction” were enough. “My name is McCormick,” said the gambler, gruffly. The asthmatic deacon gasped and leaned against the wall for support. The gambler continued, still more gruffly, “I have called upon you to ascertain by what right and on what ground you have dared to remove my dog.”
“Your dog!” gasped the deacon.
“Yes, my dog,” reiterated the gambler. “The ornament of my door steps. Where have you hidden that dog? What did you want to take him away for? Don’t you know there is a law against meddlin’ with a man’s property? Don’t you know it comes under the head of stealin’?”
A church deacon and a moral man “steal” a gambler’s dog! It was too much. He merely wheezed worse than ever, and stared at the gambler with all his eyes, and couldn’t articulate a word.
“Where have you hidden that dog, I say?” asked the gambler, impatiently. That question gave the deacon strength.
“Hidden, hidden,” he wheezed out. “Why that–that animal is not–not hidden. Whoever moved–moved it, certainly didn’t–didn’t hide it. Haven’t you–you eyes, and didn’t you–you see it–there, right in front–in front of my–my door–as you came up–up the steps?”
“No, I didn’t see it as I came up the steps,” growled McCormick, “and you can’t show it to me either.”
The asthmatic and astounded deacon hereupon walked to the front door with the gambler, and was about to point to the very place where the dog was, when, lookin’, he saw the dog was gone. He rubbed his eyes, and kept on rubbin’ and wheezin’, but the hateful dog had gone as mysteriously as he came.
A sort of explanation now ensued between the gambler and the deacon, in which it was demonstrated to the sport’s satisfaction that at least his pious neighbor, the deacon, had not stolen his dog, though that dog had been placed that very night before upon his steps–by whom?
That was the question that neither deacon nor sport could answer. So, vainly fuming’, and makin’ the air blue, McCormick went back to his place, and the next day there was an advertisement in the papers offerin’ a reward for the recovery of the dog, and a still larger reward for the discovery of the dog-thieves.
A few nights later, one dark, stormy, snowy, windy, regular winter’s night, a carriage drove, in the height of the storm, near to the McCormick gamblin’ house, and some men bore from the carriage up the steps of the gamin’ house an iron dog, which was deposited at one side of the entrance. Then the carriage drove off, neither it’s arrival nor departure havin’ been noticed from within.
Some ten minutes later, Dick Hunteen, an old rounder, who had been drinkin’ heavily of late, accompanied by a friend who had been kindly hintin’ to him that if he didn’t look out he would have an attack of delirium tremens, walked up the steps of McCormick’s faro bank.
As he did he uttered a yell.
“What’s the matter with you?” cried his friend. “Have you got the shakes already? Do you see snakes?”
“No, I don’t see snakes yet,” answered Hunteen, shakin’ violently, “but I’ve got got ‘em all the same, for I see dogs.
“See dogs,” cried his friend, “what on earth do you mean?” But just then he himself saw “dogs” too, or rather a dog; but such a dog.
He had a blue head, and a red body, and a green tail, and pink eyes and yellow hair–a rainbow dog.
You see “the boys” had got a house painter to touch up the dog durin’ the time they had charge of him, and with all this extra paint upon the animal, as a sort of interest for the loan of the animal, they had deposited him upon his master’s stoop.
Dick Hunteen stopped drinkin’ for a while; but McCormick never exactly found out who had first taken and then touched up his iron dog–though he had his suspicions.
