Part 24 (1/2)

”As I've said, gentlemen, I'm not the owner of this concern--only the dealer of the cards. You ask, who's proprietor of the smashed table.

It's natural enough you should want to know. But it's just as natural that it ain't my business to tell you. If I did, it would be a shabby trick; and, I take it, you're all men enough to see it in that light.

If there's any who isn't, he can have my card, and call upon me at his convenience. My name's Francisco de Lara--or Frank Lara, for short. I can be found here, or anywhere else in San Francisco, at such time as may suit anxious inquirers. And if any wants me now, and can't wait, I'm good this minute for pistols across that bit of board we've just been seated at. Yes, gentlemen! Any of you who'd relish a little amus.e.m.e.nt of that kind, let him come on! It'll be a change from the Monte. For my part, I'm tired of shuffling cards, and would like to rest my fingers on a trigger. Which of you feels disposed to give me the chance? Don't all speak at once!”

No one feels disposed, and no one speaks; at least in hostile tone, or to take up the challenge. Instead, half a score surround the ”sport,”

and not only express their admiration of his pluck, but challenge him to an encounter of drinks, not pistols.

Turning towards the bar, they vociferate ”Champagne.”

Contented with the turn things have taken, and proud at the volley of invitations, De Lara accepts; and soon the vintage of France is seen effervescing from a dozen tall gla.s.ses, and the Monte dealer stands drinking in the midst of his admirers.

Other groups draw up to the bar-counter, while twos and solitary tipplers fill the s.p.a.ces between.

The temple of Fortuna is for a time deserted, her wors.h.i.+ppers transferring their devotion to the shrine of Bacchus. The losers drink to drown disappointment, while the winners quaff cups in the exhilaration of success.

If a bad night for the bank, it is a good one for the bar. Decanters are speedily emptied, and bottles of many kinds go ”down among the dead men.”

The excitement in the ”El Dorado” is soon over. Occurrences of like kind, but often of more tragical termination, are too common in California to cause any long-sustained interest. Within the hour will arise some new event, equally stirring, leaving the old to live only in the recollection of those who have been active partic.i.p.ants in it.

So with the breaking of Frank Lara's bank. A stranger, entering the saloon an hour after, from what he there sees, could not tell, neither would he suspect that an incident of so serious nature had occurred.

For in less than this time the same Monte table is again surrounded by gamesters, as if its play had never been suspended. The only difference observable is that quite another individual presides over it, dealing out the cards, while a new croupier has replaced him whose cash receipts so suddenly ran short of his required disburs.e.m.e.nts.

The explanation is simply that there has been a change of owners, another celebrated ”sport” taking up the abandoned bank and opening it anew. With a few exceptions the customers are the same, their number not sensibly diminished. Most of the old players have returned to it, while the places of those who have defected, and gone off to other gambling resorts, are filled by fresh arrivals.

A small party of gentlemen, who think they have had play enough for that night, have left the ”El Dorado” for good. Among these are the English officers, whose visit proved so prejudicial to the interests of the place.

De Lara, too, and Calderon, with other confederates, have forsaken the saloon. But whither gone no one knows, or seems to care; for the fortunes of fallen men soon cease to interest those who are themselves madly struggling to mount up.

CHAPTER THIRTY TWO.

A SUPPER CARTE-BLANCHE.

On parting from the ”El Dorado,” Crozier and Cadwallader do not go directly aboard the _Crusader_. They know that their boat will be awaiting them at the place appointed. But the appointment is for a later hour; and as the breaking of the Monte bank, with the incidents attendant, occupied but a short while, there will be time for them to see a little more of San Francisco life. They have fallen in with several other young officers, naval like themselves, though not of their own s.h.i.+p, nor yet their own navy, or nation, but belonging to one cognate and kindred--Americans. Through the freemasonry of their common profession, with these they have fraternised, and it is agreed they shall all sup together. Crozier has invited the Americans to a repast the most _recherche_, as the costliest, that can be obtained at the grandest hotel in San Francisco, the _Parker House_. He adds humorously, that he is able to stand the treat. And well he may; since, besides the English money with which he entered the ”El Dorado,” he has brought thousands of dollars out of it, and would have brought more had all the ivory cheques been honoured. As it is, his pockets are filled with notes and gold; as also those of Cadwallader, who helps him to carry the s.h.i.+ning stuff. Part of the heavy metal he has been able to change into the more portable form of bank-notes. Yet the two are still heavily weighted--”laden like hucksters' donkeys!” jokingly remarks Cadwallader, as they proceed towards the _Parker_.

At the hotel a private room is engaged; and, according to promise, Crozier bespeaks a repast of the most sumptuous kind, with _carte-blanche_ for the best wines--champagne at three guineas a bottle, hock the same, and South-side Madeira still more. What difference to him?

The supper ordered in the double-quick soon makes its appearance.

Sooner in San Francisco than in any other city in the world; in better style, too, and better worth the money; for the Golden City excels in the science of gastronomy. Even then, amidst her canvas sheds, and weather-boarded houses, could be obtained dishes of every kind known to Christendom, or Pagandom: the _cuisine_ of France, Spain, and Italy; the roast beef of Old England, as the pork and beans of the New; the _gumbo_ of Guinea, and _sauerkraut_ of Germany, side by side with the swallow's-nest soup and sea-slugs of China. Had Lucullus but lived in these days, he would have forsaken the banks of the Tiber, and made California his home.

The repast furnished by the _Parker House_, however splendid, has to be speedily despatched; for unfortunately time forbids the leisurely enjoyment of the viands, to a certain extent marring the pleasure of the occasion. All the officers, American as English, have to be on their respective s.h.i.+ps at the stroke of twelve.

Reluctantly breaking up their hilarious company, they prepare to depart.

They have forsaken the supper-room, and pa.s.sed on to the outer saloon of the hotel; like all such, furnished with a drinking-bar.

Before separating, and while b.u.t.toning up against the chill night-air, Crozier calls out:

”Come, gentlemen; one more gla.s.s! The stirrup-cup!”