High Life in New York: A series of letters to Mr. Zephariah Slick, Justice of the Peace, and Deacon of the church over to Weathersfield in the state of ConnecticutStephens, Ann S. (Ann Sophia)
General
High Life in New York: A series of letters to Mr. Zephariah Slick, Justice of the Peace, and Deacon of the church over to Weathersfield in the state of Connecticut
Stephens, Ann S. (Ann Sophia)
New York (N.Y.) -- Social life and customs -- 19th century
"No," sez I, "I guess I don't; if there's any thing on arth that makes
my blood bile, it's gambling." I was a going on tu give him a piece of my
mind, but jest then he pushed a door open, all kivered over with green
flannel, and give his paper tu a tall man that stood there, looking as
solemn as an owl in a storm; and, sez he, a pinting tu me, this
gentleman belongs tu the press. The feller looked at me as sharp as a
needle, and he begun tu fumble over a paper, as if he didn't know
exactly what he wanted; but at last he held out his hand, and said it
was custom for the press to leave cards at the door. I never was so
struck up in my whole born days. Think sez I, wal, if this don't beat
all natur; they think because a feller is green enough tu go tu the
Theatre that he must play cards, and every thing else that's bad. I
shouldn't wonder, sez I tu myself, if he wants me tu begin and cuss and
swear next. I looked him right in his eyes, and put my hands down in my
pockets allfired hard, and, sez I--
"Look a here, you sir, I ain't no gambler--none of your foreign chaps,
that git their living by playing cards. You must be soft in the upper
story if you don't see that the first giffy. You don't see no hair on my
upper lip. I don't carry a cane with a bagonet in it, nor wear
checkered trousers, so you needn't ask _me_ to give you any cards, I
haint touched one of the pesky things since marm broke the tin dipper
over my head for singing out, 'high, low, Jack and the game, by gauley,'
one day when I and another little shaver got hid away in the corn-house
a playing all fours."
The feller opened his eyes a few when I said this, but three or four
finefied young fellers, with white gloves on, and little canes in their
hand, come to the door, and stood a grinning at me like so many hungry
monkeys. Cousin John spoke sort of low, and sez he,--
"It is your name the man wants. If you haven't any cards, write it out
on a piece of paper."
With that the man handed over a piece of paper, and cousin Beebe give me
his gold pencil.
Think sez I, "If they will have my name, I'll give 'em a smasher,"--so I
flourished the "J" off with an allfired long tail, and curlecued the "S"
up till it looked like a black snake in the sun. I ruther seem to think
the feller stared a few when he saw the name. The grinning chaps cum and
looked at it, but made themselves scarce in less than no time arter they
had made it out, and the tall chap, he bowed close down to the floor,
and sez he--
"Walk in, Mr. Slick, Mr. Simpson put your name on the free list ever so
long ago."
I was going to ask him to tell Mr. Simpson that I was very much
obligated, though I hadn't the least idea what he meant by his free
list, but that minit there was such a smashing of fiddles and drums and
toot-horns inside that I eenamost jumped out of my skin. It seemed as if
a dozen training bands had all been set a going tu once.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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