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A276 J2.2XN-J3.5XN Europe Parts

Manual 1689122
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DescriptionHyster Electric Motor Rider Trucks A276 J2.2XN-J3.5XN Europe Parts

Manual 1689122Size : 416 MBFormat : PDFLanguage : EnglishBrand: HysterType
of machine: Forklift – Electric Motor Rider TrucksType of document: Parts
ManualModel: Hyster A276 J2.2XN-J3.5XN Europe Electric Motor Rider
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 [Unrelated content]
Another random document on
Internet:
partly to the fact that Mark Twain was known for a genius while he
was yet alive, and partly to the indefatigable labors of his biographer,
Albert Bigelow Paine—a vast fund of accurate information has been
preserved, covering the life of the great Missourian, from the time of
his birth in the little hamlet of Florida, Mo., to his death in Reading,
Conn. No; if the shade of Field should wish to return the jest, it
would probably call the humorist's attention to a certain memorial
tablet in the Mark Twain house in Hannibal. But of that presently.
I have said that the Commercial Club honored Mark Twain's memory.
That is true. But the Commercial Club would not be a Commercial
Club if it did not also wish the visitor to take into consideration
certain other matters. In effect it says to him: "Yes, indeed, Mark
Twain spent the most important part of his boyhood here. But we
wish you to understand that Hannibal is a busy, growing town. We
have the cheapest electric power in the Mississippi Valley. We offer
free factory sites. We—"
"Yes," you say, "but where is the Mark Twain house?"
"Oh—" says Hannibal, catching its breath. "Go right on up Main to
Hill Street; you'll find it just around the corner. Any one will point it
out to you. There's a bronze tablet in the wall. But put this little
pamphlet in your pocket. It tells all about our city. You can read it at
your leisure."
You take the pamphlet and move along up Main Street. And if there
is a sympathetic native with you he will stop you at the corner of
Main and Bird—they call it Wildcat Corner—and point out a little
wooden shanty adjoining a near-by alley, where, it is said, Mark
Twain's father, John Marshall Clemens, had his office when he was
Justice of the Peace—the same office in which Samuel Clemens in
his boyhood saw the corpse lying on the floor, by moonlight, as
recounted in "The Innocents Abroad."
 We came upon the "Mark Twain House"....
And to think that, wretched as this place
was, the Clemens family were forced to
leave it for a time because they were too
poor to live there!
It was at Wildcat Corner, too, that the boys conducted that famous
piece of high finance: trading off the green watermelon, which they
had stolen, for a ripe one, on the allegation that the former had
been purchased.
Also near the corner stands the building in which Joseph Ament had
the office of his newspaper, the "Missouri Courier," where young Sam
Clemens first went to work as an apprentice, doing errands and
learning to set type; and there are many other old buildings having
some bearing on the history of the Clemens family, including one at
the corner of Main and Hill Streets, in the upper story of which the
family lived for a time, a building somewhat after the Greek pattern
so prevalent throughout the south in the early days. Once, when he
revisited Hannibal after he had become famous, Mark Twain stopped
before that building and told Mr. George A. Mahan that he
remembered when it was erected, and that at the time the fluted
pilasters on the front of it constituted his idea of reckless
extravagance—that, indeed, the ostentation of them startled the
whole town.
Turning into Bird Street and passing the old Pavey Hotel, we came
upon the "Mark Twain House," a tiny box of a cottage, its sagging
front so taken up with five windows and a door that there is barely
room for the little bronze plaque which marks the place. At one side
is an alley running back to the house of Huckleberry Finn, on the
next street (Huck, as Paine tells us, was really a boy named Tom
Blankenship), and in that alley stood the historic fence which young
Sam Clemens cajoled the other boys into whitewashing for him, as
related in "Tom Sawyer."
Inside the house there is little to be seen. It is occupied now by a
custodian who sells souvenir post cards, and has but few Mark Twain
relics to show—some photographs and autographs; nothing of
importance. But, despite that, I got a real sensation as I stood in the
little parlor, hardly larger than a good-sized closet, and realized that
in that miserable shanty grew up the wild, barefoot boy who has
since been called "the greatest Missourian" and "America's greatest
literary man," and that in and about that place he gathered the
impressions and had the adventures which, at the time, he himself
never dreamed would be made by him into books—much less books
that would be known as classics.
In the front room of the cottage a memorial tablet is to be seen. It is
a curious thing. At the top is the following inscription:
 THIS BUILDING PRESENTED TO THE
CITY OF HANNIBAL,
MAY 7, 1912,
BY
MR. AND MRS. GEORGE A. MAHAN
AS A MEMORIAL TO
MARK TWAIN

Beneath the legend is a portrait bust of the author in bas relief. At

the bottom of the tablet is another inscription. From across the room
I saw that it was set off in quotation marks, and assuming, of
course, that it was some particularly suitable extract from the works
of the most quotable of all Americans, I stepped across and read it.
This is what it said:

"MARK TWAIN'S LIFE TEACHES THAT POVERTY IS AN

INCENTIVE RATHER THAN A BAR: AND THAT ANY BOY,
HOWEVER HUMBLE HIS BIRTH AND SURROUNDINGS, MAY BY
HONESTY AND INDUSTRY ACCOMPLISH GREAT THINGS."
—George A. Mahan.

That inscription made me think of many things. It made me think of

Napoleon's inscription on the statue of Henri IV, and of Judge
Thatcher's talk with Tom Sawyer, in the Sunday school, and of Mr.
Walters, the Sunday school superintendent, in the same book, and
of certain moral lessons drawn by Andrew Carnegie. And not the
least thing of which it made me think was the mischievous, shiftless,
troublesome, sandy-haired young rascal who hated school and
Sunday school and yet became the more than honest, more than
industrious man, commemorated there.
If I did not feel the inspiration of that place while considering the
tablet, the back yard gave me real delight. There were the old
outhouses, the old back stair, the old back fence, and the little
window looking down on them—the window of Tom Sawyer, beneath
which, in the gloaming, Huckleberry Finn made catcalls to summon
forth his fellow buccaneer. And here, below the window, was the
place where Pamela Clemens, Sam's sister, the original of Cousin
Mary in "Tom Sawyer," had her candy pull on that evening when a
boy, in his undershirt, came tumbling from above.
And to think that, wretched as this place was, the Clemens family
were forced to leave it for a time because they were too poor to live
there! Of a certainty Mark Twain's early life was as squalid as his
later life was rich. However, it was always colorful—he saw to that,
straight through from the barefoot days to those of the white suits,
the Oxford gown, and the European courts.

At one side is an alley running back to the

house of Huckleberry Finn, and in that alley
stood the historic fence which young Sam
Clemens cajoled the other boys into
whitewashing for him
Not far back of the house rises the "Cardiff Hill" of the stories; in
reality, Holliday's Hill, so called because long ago there lived, up at
the top, old Mrs. Holliday, who burned a lamp in her window every
night as a mark for river pilots to run by. It was down that hill that
the boys rolled the stones which startled churchgoers, and that final,
enormous rock which, by a fortunate freak of chance, hurdled a
negro and his wagon instead of striking and destroying them. Ah,
how rich in racy memories are those streets! Somewhere among
them, in that part of town which has come to be called "Mark-
Twainville," is the very spot, unmarked and unknown, where young
Sam Clemens picked up a scrap of newspaper upon which was
printed a portion of the tale of Joan of Arc—a scrap of paper which,
Paine says, gave him his first literary stimulus. And somewhere else,
not far from the house, is the place where Orion Clemens, Sam's
elder brother, ran the ill-starred newspaper on which Sam worked,
setting type and doing his first writing. It was, indeed, in Orion's
paper that Sam's famous verse, "To Mary in Hannibal," was
published—the title condensed, because of the narrow column, to
read: "To Mary in H—l."
Along the crest of the bluffs, overlooking the river, the city of
Hannibal has made for itself a charming park, and at the highest
point in this park there is to be unveiled, in a short time, a statue of
Samuel Langhorne Clemens, which, from its position, will command
a view of many leagues of mile-wide Mississippi. It is peculiarly
fitting that the memorial should be stationed in that place. Mark
Twain loved the river. Even though it almost "got" him in his
boyhood (he had "nine narrow escapes from drowning") he adored
it; later, when his youthful ambition to become a river pilot was
attained, he still adored it; and finally he wrote his love of it into that
masterpiece, "Life on the Mississippi," of which Arnold Bennett has
said: "I would sacrifice for it the entire works of Thackeray and
George Eliot."
Looking up the river from the spot where the statue will be placed,
one may see Turtle Island, where Tom and Huck used to go and
feast on turtle's eggs—rowing there in that boat which, after they
had so "honestly and industriously" stolen it, they painted red, that
its former proprietor might not recognize it. Below is Glascox Island,
where Nigger Jim hid. Glascox Island is often called Tom Sawyer's
Island, or Mark Twain's Island, now. Not far below the island is the
"scar on the hill-side" which marks the famous cave.
"For Sam Clemens," says Paine in his biography, "the cave had a
fascination that never faded. Other localities and diversions might
pall, but any mention of the cave found him always eager and ready
for the three-mile walk or pull that brought them to the mystic door."
I suggested to my companion that, for the sake of sentiment, we,
too, approach the cave by rowing down the river. And, having
suggested the plan, I offered to take upon myself the heaviest
responsibility connected with it—that of piloting the boat in these
unfamiliar waters. All I required of him was the mere manual act of
working the oars. To my amazement he refused. I fear that he not
only lacks sentiment, but that he is becoming lazy.
We drove out to the cave in a Ford car.
Do you remember when Tom Sawyer took the boys to the cave at
night, in "Huckleberry Finn"?
"We went to a clump of bushes," says Huck, "and Tom made
everybody swear to keep the secret, and then showed them a hole
in the hill, right in the thickest part of the bushes. Then we lit
candles and crawled in on our hands and knees. We went about two
hundred yards, and then the cave opened up. Tom poked about
among the passages, and pretty soon ducked under a wall where
you wouldn't 'a' noticed there was a hole. We went along a narrow
place and got into a kind of room, all damp and sweaty and cold,
and there we stopped. Tom says: 'Now we'll start this band of
robbers and call it Tom Sawyer's Gang. Everybody that wants to join
has got to take an oath and write his name in blood.'"
That is the sort of cave it is—a wonderful, mysterious place, black as
India ink; a maze of passageways and vaulted rooms, eaten by the
waters of long ago through the limestone cliffs; a seemingly endless
cavern full of stalactites and stalagmites, looking like great conical
masses of candle grease; a damp, oppressive labyrinth of eerie rock
formations, to kindle the most bloodcurdling imaginings.
As we moved in, away from the daylight, illuminating our way,
feebly, with such matches as we happened to have with us, and with
newspaper torches, the man who had driven us out there told us
about the cave.
"They ain't no one ever explored it," he said. "'S too big. Why, they's
a lake in here—quite a big lake, with fish in it. And they's an arm of
the cave that goes away down underneath the river. They say they's
wells, too—holes with no bottoms to 'em. Prob'ly that's where them
people went to that's got lost in the cave."
"Have people gotten lost in here?" I asked.
"Oh, yes," he said cheerfully. "They say there's some that's gone in
and never come out again. She's quite a cave."
I began to walk more gingerly into the blackness.
"I suppose," I said to him presently, "there are toads and snakes and
such things here?"
He hastened to set my mind at rest on that.
"Oh, Lord bless you, yes!" he declared. "Bats, too."
"And I suppose some of those holes you speak of are full of
snakes?"
"Most likely." His voice reverberated in the darkness. "But I can't be
sure. Nobody that's ever been in them holes ain't lived to tell the
tale."
By this time we had reached a point at which no glimmer of light
from the mouth of the cave was visible. We were feeling our way
along, running our hands over the damp rocks and putting our feet
before us with the utmost caution. I knew, of course, that it would
add a good deal to my story if one of our party fell into a hole and
was never again heard from, but the more I thought about it the
more advisable it seemed to me that I should not be that one. I had
an engagement for dinner that evening, and besides, if I fell in, who
would write the story? Certainly the driver of the auto-hack, for all
his good will, could hardly do it justice; whereas, if he fell in I could
at a pinch drive the little Ford back to the city.
I dropped behind. But when I did that he stopped.
"I just stopped for breath," I said. "You can keep on and I'll follow in
a minute."
"No," he answered, "I'll wait for you. I'm out of breath, too. Besides,
I don't want you to get lost in here."
At this juncture my companion, who had moved a little way off, gave
a frightful yell, which echoed horribly through the cavern.
I could not see him. I did not know what was the matter. Never
mind! My one thought was of him. Perhaps he had been attacked by
a wildcat or a serpent. Well, he was my fellow traveler, and I would
stand by him! Even the chauffeur of the hack seemed to feel the
same way. Together we turned and ran toward the place whence we
thought the voice might have come—that is to say, toward the
mouth of the cave. But when we reached it he wasn't there.
"He must be back in the cave, after all," I said to the driver.
"Yes," he agreed.
"Now, I tell you," I said. "We mustn't both go in after him. One of us
ought to stay here and call to the others to guide them out. I'll do
that. I have a good strong voice. And you go in and find out what's
the matter. You know the cave better than I do."
"Oh, no I don't," said the man.
"Why certainly you do!" I said.
"I wasn't never into the cave before," he said. "Leastways not
nowhere near as far as we was this time."
"But you live right here in Hannibal," I insisted. "You must know
more about it than I do. I live in New York. What could I know about
a cave away out here in Missouri?"
"Well, you know just as much as I do, anyhow," he returned
doggedly.
"Look here!" I said sharply. "I hope you aren't a coward? The idea! A
great big fellow like you, too!"
However, at that juncture, our argument was stopped by the
appearance of the missing man. He strolled into the light in leisurely
fashion.
"What happened?" I cried.
"Happened?" he repeated. "Nothing happened. Why?"
"You yelled, didn't you?"
"Yes," he said, "I wanted to hear the echoes."

Before leaving Hannibal that afternoon, we had the pleasure of

meeting an old school friend of Samuel Clemens's, Colonel John L.
RoBards—the same John RoBards of whom it is recorded in Paine's
work that "he wore almost continually the medal for amiability, while
Samuel Clemens had a mortgage on the medal for spelling."
Colonel RoBards is still amiable. He took us to his office, showed us
a scrap-book containing clippings in which he was mentioned in
connection with Mark Twain, and told us of old days in the log
schoolhouse.
Seeing that I was making notes, the Colonel called my attention
politely to the spelling of his name, requesting that I get it right.
Then he explained to me the reason for the capital B, beginning the
second syllable.
"I may say, sir," he explained in his fine Southern manner, "that I
inserted that capital B myself. At least I converted the small B into a
capital. I am a Kentuckian, sir, and in Kentucky my family name
stands for something. It is a name that I am proud to bear, and I do
not like to be called out of it. But up here I was continually annoyed
by the errors of careless persons. Frequently they would fail to give
the accent on the final syllable, where it should be placed, sir—
RoBards; that is the way it should be pronounced—but even worse,
it happened now and then that some one called me by the plebeian
appellation, Roberts. That was most distasteful to me, sir. Most
distasteful. For that reason I use the capital B for emphasis."
I was glad to assure the Colonel that in these pages his name would
be correctly spelled, and I call him to witness that I spoke the truth.
I repeat, the name is RoBards. And it is borne by a most amiable
gentleman.

Mr. F. W. Hixson of St. Louis has in his possession an autograph book

which belonged to his mother when she was a young girl (Ann
Virginia Ruffner), residing in Hannibal. In this book, Sam Clemens
wrote a verse at the time when he was preparing to leave the town
where he had spent his youth. I reproduce that boyish bit of
doggerel here, solely for the value of one word which it contains:

Good-by, good-by,
I bid you now, my friend;
And though 'tis hard to say the word,
To destiny I bend.
Never, in his most perfect passages, did Samuel Clemens hit more
certainly upon the one right word than when in this verse he wrote
the second word in the last line.
And what a destiny it was!

Never outside of Brittany and Normandy

have I seen roads so full of animals as those
of Pike County
 CHAPTER XX
PIKE AND POKER

It was before we left St. Louis that I received a letter inviting us to

visit in the town of Louisiana, Mo. I quote a portion of it:

Louisiana is in Pike County, a county famous for its big red

apples, miles of rock roads, fine old estates, Rhine scenery,
capons, rare old country hams, and poker. Pike County means
more to Missouri than Missouri does to Pike.
Do you remember "Jim Bludso of the 'Prairie Belle'"?

He weren't no saint—them engineers

Is pretty much all alike—
One wife in Natchez-under-the-Hill
And another one here in Pike.

We can show you "the willer-bank on the right," where Bludso

ran the 'Prairie Belle' aground and made good with his life his
old promise:

I'll hold her nozzle agin the bank

Till the last galoot's ashore.

We can also show you the home of Champ Clark, and the
largest nursery in the world, and a meadow where, twenty-five
years ago, a young fellow threw down his hayfork and said to
his companion: "Sam, I'm going to town to study law with
Champ Clark. Some day I'm going to be Governor of this State."
He was Elliott W. Major, and he is Governor to-day.
The promise held forth by this letter appealed to me. It is always
interesting to see whether a man like Champ Clark lives in a house
with ornamental iron fences on the roof and iron urns in the front
yard; likewise there is a sort of fascination for a man of my extensive
ignorance, in hearing not merely how the Governor of Missouri
decided to become Governor, but in finding out his name. Then
those hams and capons—how many politicians can compare for
interest with a tender capon or a fine old country ham? And perhaps
more alluring to me than any of these was the idea of going to visit
in a strange State, and a strange town, and a strange house—the
house of a total stranger.
We accepted.
Our host met us with his touring car and proceeded to make good
his promises about the nursery, and the scenery, and the roads, and
the estates, and as we bowled along he told us about "Pike." It is
indeed a great county. And the fact that it was originally settled by
Virginians, Kentuckians, and Carolinians still stamps it strongly with
the qualities of the South. Though north of St. Louis on the map, it
is south of St. Louis in its spirit. Indeed, Louisiana is the most
Southern town in appearance and feeling that we visited upon our
travels. The broad black felt hats one sees about the streets, the
luxuriant mustaches and goatees—all these things mark the town,
and if they are not enough, you should see "Indy" Gordon as she
walks along puffing at a bulldog pipe black as her own face.
Never outside of Brittany and Normandy have I seen roads so full of
animals as those of Pike County. From the great four-horse teams,
drawing produce to and from the beautiful estate called "Falicon," to
the mule teams and the saddle horses and the cows and pigs and
chickens and dogs, all the quadrupeds and bipeds domesticated by
mankind were there upon the roads to meet us and to protest, by
various antics, against the invasion of the motor car. Dogs hurled
themselves at the car as though to suicide; chickens extended
themselves in shrieking dives across our course; pigs arose from the
luxurious mud with grunts of frantic disapproval, and cantered
heavily into the fields; cows trotted lumberingly before us, their hind
legs and their fore legs moving, it seemed, without relation to each
other; a goat ran round and round the tree to which he was
attached; mules pointed their ears to heaven, and opened their eyes
wide in horror and amazement; beautiful saddle horses bearing
countrymen, or rosy-cheeked young women from the farms, tried to
climb into the boughs of wayside trees for safety, and four-horse
teams managed to get themselves involved in a manner only rivaled
by a ball of yarn with which a kitten is allowed to work its own sweet
will.
Our host took all these matters calmly. When a mule protested at
our presence on the road, it would merely serve as a reminder that,
"Pike County furnished most of the mules for the Spanish war"; or,
when a saddle horse showed signs of homicidal purpose, it would
draw the calm observation, "Pike is probably the greatest county in
the whole United States for saddle horses. 'Missouri King,' the
undefeated champion saddle horse of the world, was raised here."
So we progressed amid the outraged animals.
My feeling as I alighted at last on the step before our host's front
door was one of definite relief. For dinner is the meal I care for
most, and man, with all his faults, the animal I most enjoy.
The house was genial like its owner—it was just the sort of house I
like; large and open, with wide halls, spacious rooms, comfortable
beds and chairs, and ash trays everywhere.
"I've asked some men in for dinner and a little game," our host
informed us, as he left us to our dressing.
Presently we heard motors arriving in the drive, beneath our
windows. When we descended, the living room was filled with men
in dinner suits. (Oh, yes; they wear them in those Mississippi River
towns, and they fit as well as yours does!)
When we had been introduced we all moved to the dining room.
At each place was a printed menu with the heading "At Home
Abroad"—a hospitable inversion of the general title of these chapters
—and with details as follows:
A COUNTRY DINNER

Old Pike County ham,

Pike County capons
and other Pike County essentials,
with Pike County Colonels.

At the bottom of the card was this—shall I call it warning?

Senator Warner once said to Colonel Roosevelt: "Pike County

babies cut their teeth on poker chips."

I have already said that Pike is a county with a Southern savor, but I
had not realized how fully that was true until I dined there. I will not
say that I have never tasted such a dinner, for truth I hold even
above politeness. All I will say is that if ever before I had met with
such a meal the memory of it has departed—and, I may add, my
memory for famous meals is considered good to the point of
irritation.
The dinner (save for the "essentials") was entirely made up of
products of the county. More, it was even supervised and cooked by
county products, for two particularly sweet young ladies, members
of the family, were flying around the kitchen in their pretty evening
gowns, helping and directing Molly.
Molly is a pretty mulatto girl. Her skin is like a smooth, light-colored
bronze, her eye is dark and gentle, like that of some domesticated
animal, her voice drawls in melodious cadences, and she has a sort
of shyness which is very fetching.
"Ah cain't cook lak they used to cook in the ole days," she smiled in
response to my tribute to the dinner, later. "The Kuhnel was askin'
jus' th' othah day if ah could make 'im some ash cake, but ah haid to
tell 'im ah couldn't. Ah've seen ma gran'fatha make it lots o' times,
but folks cain't make it no mo', now-a-days."
Poor benighted Northerner that I am, I had to ask what ash cake
was. It is a kind of corn cake, Molly told me, the parent, so to speak,
of the corn dodger, and the grandparent of hoecake. It has to be
prepared carefully and then cooked in the hot ashes—cooked "jes
so," as Molly said.
Having learned about ash cake, I demanded more Pike County
culinary lore, whereupon I was told, partly by my host, and partly by
Molly, about the oldtime wedding cooks.
Wedding cooks were the best cooks in the South, supercooks, with
state-wide reputations. When there was a wedding a dinner was
given at the home of the bride, for all the wedding guests, and it
was in the preparation of this repast that the wedding cook of the
bride's family showed what she could do. That dinner was on the
day of the wedding. On the next day the entire company repaired to
the home of the groom's family, where another dinner was served—
a dinner in which the wedding cook belonging to this family tried to
outdo that of the day before. This latter feast was known as the
"infair." But all these old Southern customs seem to have departed
now, along with the wedding cooks themselves. The latter very
seldom came to sale, being regarded as the most valuable of all
slaves. Once in a while when some leading family was in financial
difficulties and was forced to sell its wedding cook she would bring
as much as eight or ten times the price of an ordinary female slave.

After dinner, when we moved out to the living room, we found a

large, green table all in place, with the chips arranged in little piles.
But let me introduce you to the players.
First, there was Colonel Edgar Stark, our host, genial and warm-
hearted over dinner; cold and inscrutable behind his spectacles
when poker chips appeared.
Then Colonel Charlie Buffum, heavily built, but with a similar dual
personality.
Then Colonel Frank Buffum, State Highway Commissioner; or, as
some one called him later in the evening, when the chips began to
gather at his place, State "highwayman."
Then Colonel Dick Goodman, banker, raconteur, and connoisseur of
edibles and "essentials."
Then Colonel George S. Cake, who, when not a Colonel, is a
Commodore: commander of the "Betsy," flagship of the Louisiana
Yacht Club, and the most famous craft to ply the Mississippi since
the "Prairie Belle." (Don't "call" Colonel Cake when he raises you and
at the same time raises his right eyebrow.)
Then Colonel Dick Hawkins, former Collector of the Port of St. Louis,
and more recently (since there has been so little in St. Louis to
collect) a gentleman farmer. (Colonel Hawkins always wins at poker.
The question is not "Will he win?" but "How much?")
Only two men in the game were not, so far as I discovered,
Colonels.
One, Major Dave Wald, has been held back in title because of time
devoted to the pursuit of literature. Major Wald has written a book.
The subject of the book is Poker. As a tactician, he is perhaps
unrivaled in Missouri. He will look at a hand and instantly declare the
percentage of chance it stands of filling in the draw, according to the
law of chance. One hand will be, to Major Wald, a "sixteen-time
hand"; another a "thirty-two time hand," and so on—meaning that
the player has one chance in sixteen, or in thirty-two, of filling.
The other player was merely a plain "Mister," like ourselves—Mr.
John W. Matson, the corporation lawyer. At first I felt sorry for Mr.
Matson. It seemed hard that the rank of Colonel had been denied
him. But when I saw him shuffle and deal, I was no longer sorry for
him, but for myself. With the possible exception of General Bob
Williams (who won't play any more now that he has been appointed
postmaster), and Colonel Clarence Buell, who used to play in the big
games on the Mississippi boats, Mr. Matson can shuffle and deal
more rapidly and more accurately than any man in Missouri.
Colonel Buell was present, as was Colonel Lloyd Stark, but neither
played. Colonel Buell had intended to, but on being told that my
companion and I were from New York he declined to "take the
money." The Colonel—but to say "the Colonel" in Pike County is
hardly specific—Colonel Buell, I mean, is the same gentleman who
fought the Indians, long ago, with Buffalo Bill, and who later acted
as treasurer of the Wild West Show on its first trip to Europe. Some
one informed me that the Colonel—Colonel Buell, I mean—was a
capitalist, but the information was beside the mark, for I had already
seen the diamond ring he wears—a most remarkable piece of
landscape gardening.
During the evening Colonel Buell, who stood for an hour or two and
watched the play, spoke of certain things that he had seen and done
which, as I estimated it, could not have been seen or done within
the last sixty years. "How old is Colonel Buell?" I asked another
Colonel.
"Colonel," asked the Colonel, "how old are you?"
"Colonel," replied the Colonel, "I am exactly in my prime."
"I know that, Colonel," said the Colonel, "but what is your age?"
"Colonel," returned the Colonel suavely, "I have forgotten my exact
age. But I know that I am somewhere between eighty and one
hundred and forty-two."
It was Mr. Matson's deal. He dealt. The cards passed through the air
and fell, one on the other, in neat piles. (If you prefer it, Mr. Matson
can drop a fan-shaped hand before you, all ready to pick up.) And
from the time that the first hand was played I knew that here, as in
St. Louis, my companion and I were babes among the lions. I do not
know how he played, but I do know that I played along as best I
could, only trying not to lose too much money at once.
But why rehearse the pathetic story? I spoke in a former chapter of
Missouri poker, and Pike County is a county in Missouri. Bet on a
good pat hand and some one always holds a better one. Bluff and
they call you. Call and they beat you. There is no way of winning
from Missouri. Missouri poker players are mahatmas. They have an
occult sense of cards. Babes at their mothers' breasts can tell the
difference between a straight and a flush long before they have the
power of speech. Once, while in Pike County, I asked a little boy how
many brothers and sisters he had. "One brother and three sisters,"
he replied, and added: "A full house."
The Missouri gentlemen, so gay, so genial, at the dinner table, take
on a frigid look when the cards and chips appear. They turn from
gentle, kindly human beings into relentless, ravening wolves, each
intent upon the thought of devouring the other. And when, over a
poker game, some player seems to enter into a pleasant
conversation, the other players know that even that is a bluff—a
blind to cover up some diabolic plot.
Once during the game, for instance, Colonel Hawkins started in to
tell me something of his history. And I, bland simpleton, believed we
were conversing sans ulterior motive.
"I used to be in politics," he said. "Then I was in the banking
business. But I've gone back to farming now, because it is the only
honest business in the world. In fact—"
But at that juncture the steely voices of half the other players at the
table interrupted.
"Ante!" they cried. "Ante, farmer!"
Whereupon Colonel Hawkins, who by that time had to crane his neck
to see the table over his pile of chips—a pile of chips like the