The Flag of Distress Part 24

"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 worshippers 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 ship, 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 shining 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 ships 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!"

In San Francisco this is always the wind up to a night of revelry. No matter how much wine has been quaffed, the carousal is not deemed complete without a last "valedictory" drink taken standing at the bar.

Giving way to the Californian custom, the officers range themselves along the marble slab; bending over which, the polite bar-keeper asks:

"What is it to be, gentlemen?"

There is a moment of hesitation, the gentlemen--already well wined-- scarce knowing what to call for. Crozier cuts the Gordian knot by proposing:

"A round of punches _a la Romaine_!"

Universal a.s.sent to this delectable drink; as all know just the thing for a night-cap.

Soon the cooling beverage, compounded with snow from the Sierra Nevada, appears upon the counter, in huge gla.s.ses, piled high with the sparkling crystals; a spoon surmounting each--for punch _a la Romaine_ is not to be drunk, but eaten.

Shovelling it down in haste, adieus are exchanged, with a hearty shake of hands. Then the American officers go off, leaving Crozier and Cadwallader in the saloon; these only staying to settle the account.

While standing by the bar, waiting for it to be brought, they cast a glance around the room. At first careless, it soon becomes concentrated on a group seen at some distance off, near one of the doors leading out, of which there are several. There are also several other groups; for the saloon is of large dimensions, besides being the most popular place of resort in San Francisco. And for San Francisco the hour is not yet late. Along the line of the drinking-bar, and over the white-sanded floor, are some scores of people of all qualities and kinds, in almost every variety of costume; though they who compose the party that has attracted the attention of the English officers show nothing particular--that is, to the eye of one unacquainted with them. There are four of them, two wearing broadcloth cloaks, the other two having their shoulders shrouded under _serapes_. Nothing in all that. The night is cold, indeed wet, and they are close to the door, to all appearance intending soon to step out. They have only paused to exchange a parting word, as if they designed to separate before issuing into the street.

Though the spot where they stand is in shadow--a folding screen separating it from the rest of the saloon--and it is not easy to get sight of their faces--the difficulty increased by broad-brimmed hats set slouchingly on their heads, with their cloaks and serapes drawn up around their throats--Crozier and Cadwallader have not only seen, but recognised them. A glance at their countenances, caught before the m.u.f.fling was made, enabled the young officers to identify three of them as De Lara, Calderon, and the _ci-devant_ croupier of the Monte bank.

The fourth, whose face they have also seen, is a personage not known to them; but, judging by his features, a suitable a.s.sociate for the other three.

Soon as catching sight of them, which he is the first to do, Crozier whispers to his companion:

"See, Will! Look yonder! Our friends from the 'El Dorado!'"

"By Jove! them, sure enough. Do you think they've been following us?"

"I shouldn't wonder. I was only surprised they didn't do something, when they had us in their gambling den. After the heavy draw I made on Mr Lara's bank, I expected no less than that he'd try to renew his acquaintance with me; all the more from his having been so free of it in the morning. Instead, he and his friend seemed to studiously avoid coming near us--not even casting a look in our direction. That rather puzzled me."

"It needn't. After what you gave him, I should think he'll feel shy of another encounter."

"No; that's not it. Blackleg though the fellow be, he's got game in him. He gave proof of it in the 'El Dorado,' defying, and backing everybody out. It was an exhibition of real courage, Will; and, to tell the truth, I couldn't help admiring it--can't now. When I saw him presiding over the gambling table, and dealing out the cards, I at once made up my mind that it would never do to meet him--even if he challenged me. Now, I've decided differently; and if he call me out, I'll give him a chance to recover a little of his lost reputation. I will, upon my honour."

"But why should you? A 'sport,' a professional gambler! The thing would be simply ridiculous."

"Nothing of the kind--not here in California. On the contrary, I should cut a more ridiculous figure by refusing him satisfaction. It remains to be seen whether he'll seek it according to the correct code."

"That he won't; at least, I don't think he will. From the way that lot have got their heads together, it looks as if they meant mischief, _now_. They may have been watching their opportunity--to get us two alone. What a pity we didn't see them before our friends went off!

They're good fellows, those Yankee officers, and would have stood by us."

"No doubt they would. But it's too late now. They're beyond hailing distance, and we must take care of ourselves. Get your dirk ready, Will, and have your hand close to the b.u.t.t of that shooting-iron, you took from Mr De Lara."

"I have it that way. Never fear. Wouldn't it be a good joke if I have to give the fellow a pill out of his own pistol?"

"No joking matter to us, if they're meditating an attack. Though we disarmed him in the morning, he'll be freshly provided, and with weapons in plenty. I'll warrant each of the four has a battery concealed under his cloak. They appear as if concocting some scheme--which we'll soon know all about--likely before leaving the house. Certainly, they're up to something."

"Four hundred and ninety dollars, gentlemen!"

The financial statement is made by the office clerk presenting the bill.