The Sport of Fortune

by Melville Davisson Post

The Sport of Fortune

BY MELVILLE DAVISSON POST

MOST of the congregation had gone when David Talbott came out of the church. There had been a little business to transact on this Wednesday afternoon, and he had remained to speak with the class-leader. He got on his horse and began to descend the country road winding through a wood into the valley below. It was a day of early autumn. The sun lay warm on the many-colored foliage. There was silence. Nature seemed gently sinking into slumber.

Talbott was sixty—five years old. About him was every physical evidence of a never-ceasing, rigorous conflict with the soil; his shoulders were stooped, his joints big, his hands flattened and covered with a callous like bony plates. The man bore also the aspect of a rigid economy—the economy that cannot permit the tiniest detritus.

Everything about him spoke to the very slightest expenditure of money. His clothes were of jeans—that material which is country woven and wears like a skin. His boots were of cowhide, and hand-made by the village shoemaker. His shirt had been purchased at the country store, and was of that tough material called in the South "hickory." Usually he wore these shirts without a collar, but to-day, out of respect for the religious service, he had added a paper one, fastened with a detachable button, the head of which was some bright-colored composition enclosed in a brass band.

This man represented life maintained against a mean soil that would hardly support it. But industry, a painful economy, and an exact, accurate knowledge of conditions had enabled him to advance. He owned a little farm of some fifty acres, and he was Out of debt. His habit of purchasing only those things which he actually required, and paying for them in cash, and his extreme care in contracting about what he would do, had in the end established his reputation for integrity.

When a man advances against difficulties that beset him, in whatever avenue of life, he takes on a certain feeling of security. In him, in spite of the humility engendered by religion, there develops a deep and abiding belief that the human mind is master over the mysterious and unknown agencies with which it is forced to contend. And in his aspect the man will come to carry this egotism. Talbott rode with his legs thrust out, his chin depressed, and his face in repose. Those things which he had wrung from the soil, and the esteem in which he was held by his neighbors, had endowed him with a feeling of security.

When Talbott turned out of the wood at the foot of the hill, he saw a man standing in the road, and beside him, drawn up on the sod, was a horse and wagon. The wagon was covered with a tarpaulin drawn over wooden bows, and within sat a woman, wrapped in a bed-quilt. Talbott knew these persons for gipsies. It was their custom in the autumn to follow this road over the mountains into the South, and to return North upon it when the winter had passed.

Talbott nodded as he approached. The gipsy stopped him.

"I would trade horses, mister," he said; "it is a good colt, but I travel, and I require an old horse."

Talbott glanced over the horse which the gipsy indicated. It was a big, iron-gray gelding; evidently young, compactly built, with short, flat, bony legs, and a deep chest. Talbott's horse was nearly fifteen years old. He saw the possibilities of this young animal, and he got down out of his saddle.

"I'll look at your horse," he said.

He went over to the wagon and began that careful examination which those who cannot afford to be mistaken are accustomed to make—that examination which scrutinizes everything, and by its sheer care eliminates the element of chance. Without the knowledge of anatomy taught in veterinary schools, this man was a judge of a horse. By long experience and by the closest observation he knew every point of the animal.

Talbott was profoundly puzzled. The horse appeared to be sound. And yet there must be some reason why this man wished to exchange a young animal for an old one. And he began again to apply those tests upon which he was accustomed to rely. Finally he discovered the trouble; the horse was "graveled"—that is, a tiny pebble had entered the hoof under the shoe. This was not a serious thing, but it would cause the horse to go lame until it gradually worked out through the top of the hoof.

Talbott rose and turned to the gipsy.

"Your horse is lame," he said.

The gipsy began profuse explanations. He ran to the horse and pointed out the small hole in the hoof which Talbott had already discovered. It was nothing; the gravel would presently work out; the horse required only to be turned to pasture for a week. But for him that was impossible; he must go on; therefore he would trade—he would trade at a sacrifice—this young horse for an old one. A certain thing pressed him; he could not stop.

What the gipsy said of the horse, Talbott knew to be true, and he would have willingly exchanged his old horse for the young one. But the evident anxiety of the man moved him to ask a bonus. And after the manner of those among whom he was accustomed to barter, he named a sum very greatly in excess of what he could hope to receive.

"I'll take twenty dollars to boot," he said.

To his astonishment, the gipsy seemed to consider this absurd demand. He began to talk, to gesticulate, to complain of the hard terms, and the situation in which he was placed, and as he talked, in his excitement he began to speak in Romany. He pointed to the woman. Talbott did not understand, but he saw that the gipsy was exceedingly anxious for this trade, and he remained firm. The man went over to the woman, they talked in Romany, excitedly and with gesticulations. Finally they got a twenty-dollar bill out of a greasy wallet; the woman held it in her hand and spoke for some time in a low voice, then the man came out into the road and handed the money to Talbott.

Talbott took his saddle on his arm, and, leading the young horse, returned to his home.

His little farm, with its thin, inhospitable soil, lay beside the river. Here in the early autumn there was some pasture, and he turned the horse into the field. That night, before the fire, alone in his house, he began to review the incidents of the trade. Why had the gipsy been so willing to give him this twenty-dollar bonus? These men were proverbially excellent judges of a horse; this one must have known that the young animal was superior to the older one for which he had exchanged it. And he became fearful lest this horse had some obscure defect which he had not discovered.

He was uneasy. And very early in the morning he caught the horse and began again with that thorough, painstaking examination that excludes error. It was the eye of which he was especially fearful. And with care and with patience he made every test, and created every condition in which a hidden defect would appear, but discovered nothing. Nevertheless, he was not wholly convinced, and throughout the day, as some further experiment occurred to him, he would return, and again verify the examination which he had made. But no defect appeared. And in spite of the abiding conviction that some potent reason must exist for this extraordinary trade, he was at last convinced that the horse was sound.

By one accustomed closely to consider the trivialities of life, no problem is abandoned. Such a one does not dismiss a puzzle that touches him at any point. His margin of gain is so slight that he dare not be involved with a thing which he does not understand, and the habit is established to remain before the enigma until its meaning appears.

Talbott continued to consider this extraordinary trade. All day in the field, about his labors, he subjected it to a certain method of exclusion after the manner in which he had examined the horse for a defect. And one by one he dismissed those theories which seemed the less likely to contain the truth. By virtue of this proceeding he finally arrived before the suggestion that probably the twenty-dollar bill which the gipsy had so easily paid over was not good money.

He stopped before this possibility, and certain evidences advanced to support it. Counterfeit money was associated, in this country, with the stranger, the circus, the traveling salesman, the gipsy. Moreover, the man and his wife had discussed this bill, and they had easily paid it over. Having reached this point in his consideration, Talbott's mind remained there.

That evening when he went in from the field he got the bill from his leather wallet and scrutinized it carefully before the candle. It appeared not precisely the proper color. He laid it aside until morning, and examined it in the daylight. It seemed faded. He replaced it in the wallet, which he kept concealed in the mattress of his bed, and sat down to consider what he should do. He did not permit himself to decide upon the validity of this bill. He had the right to the security of the doubt. He had received it in the course of trade for valid money, and he had the right to so dispose of it. Moreover, the discoloration was slight, and had he not been seeking for the gipsy's motive he knew that he should not have marked it.

The storekeeper in the neighboring village had been urging him to purchase a certain fertilizer for his field. He had refused because he had not the money and could not afford the debt. He determined now to make this purchase, and he went in the afternoon to the village. The storekeeper was pleased to agree to Talbott's proposition. He would purchase twenty dollars' worth of the fertilizer, provided the storekeeper would undertake to sell at the store those extra bags which Talbott would not require for his field.

"When will you be goin' into town?"

"I'm expecting to go Saturday," replied the storekeeper.

And Talbott promised to bring him the money before that day.

On Friday evening Talbott went with the twenty-dollar bill to the village. The evenings were a bit chill, and there was a crowd about the stove when he entered the store. It was baiting the storekeeper. The topic of conversation was a traveling circus, advertised to visit the village, and some one was saying:

"You've got to look out for that set, Andy; they always leave their plugged half—dollars with the country storekeeper."

The crowd laughed.

"They won't leave any with me," replied the storekeeper. "I always examine silver when I take it in."

"S'pose it's a greenback?" some one said; "you can't always tell about a greenback."

"I can't," replied the storekeeper, "but the bank can. The cashier always examines your money when you deposit it, an' if you had a bad bill he'd stamp it 'counterfeit.' Now, I always remember who I get a bill from, an' if a man give me a bad one, I'd go after him an' I'd make him fork over good money for it."

Talbott stopped. He remained a moment in the door, then he spoke to the storekeeper.

"I guess I won't buy that fertilizer, Andy."

The storekeeper was surprised and annoyed. He received a good commission on this article.

"You've already bought it," he said; "I've ordered it."

Talbott was now alarmed.

"Well, he said, "I've been thinkin' it over, an' I find that I ain't just exactly in a position to take it."

The storekeeper was insistent.

"You said you'd take it."

"Yes,'" Talbott replied, "I thought I could manage, but things have turned out a little different from what I expected."

"You mean you haven't the money!"

Talbott hesitated. "Well, yes, … that's about it."

The storekeeper did not continue. He went around the counter to his desk and began to write a note countermanding his order. He knew that if Talbott had not the money, it was useless to insist; such a man could not be persuaded to incur a debt. But he was angry, and when Talbott was gone out he said:

"Now, who'd a-thought that ol' Talbott would back out of a trade?"

And he began to relate the incident, and to explain how definitely the transaction had been concluded. The crowd about the store, with the exception of the blacksmith, were inclined to take the side of the storekeeper. The blacksmith said:

"A man's sometimes disappointed about layin' his hands on money to pay for a thing, an' that's excusable. If he's got the money an' he won't stand up to his bargain, that's different. Now, I'd say that, if Talbott had the money on him, he'd be no man to back out."

This sound comment silenced the crowd. But the chagrin of the storekeeper over the loss of his commission remained. And that night he related the story to his wife. She said:

"If there's a yellow streak in a man, it 'll come out when he gets old."

Talbott returned to his home. He was annoyed over this incident. In order to extricate himself from a purchase which he now feared to make he had in st manner repudiated his word, and he had drawn perilously near to a statement that, from one point of view, was not precisely the truth. He had not the money for this purchase unless the bill was valid. And the certain test indicated by the storekeeper had alarmed him. In that moment in the door he had seen the danger. If the bank stamped this bill, he would have to find other money in its stead. And on the instant, without reflection, he had been forced to withdraw from the difficulty in the best way that he could manage.

That night he reflected. He had done no wrong. He had received this money innocently and in the course of trade. He had taken it in good faith, and he was entitled to the benefit of any doubt. But deliberately to make a test such as the storekeeper indicated was neither prudent nor necessary. And it seemed to him that if the bill quietly entered the avenues of trade, other than through the doors of a bank, no one would expect it and no one would suffer loss.

On Monday, at work in his field, he saw a young man approaching along the road. When he drew nearer, Talbott recognized him for one who had come into the community and established a summer subscription school. This man was from a distant State; his school had closed, and Talbott was curious to know why he remained. He went down to the fence and engaged the schoolteacher in conversation. He learned that the man was going about to collect certain subscriptions that were due him; when these were secured, he would set out for his home. The man complained that the persons in his debt were able to pay, and in the end would do so, but they required him to await their pleasure.

Talbott had an inspiration. "How much do the people owe you?" he said.

"About twenty-five dollars," replied the school-teacher.

Talbott appeared to reflect. "I might be able to help you out a little," he said.

And he explained that to accommodate the school-teacher he would advance him twenty dollars and take an assignment of these subscriptions.

The school-teacher was pleased; this arrangement would enable him to set out on his journey without further delay.

"If you have the idle money, Mr. Talbott," he said, "and if it won't inconvenience you, I would be very much obliged."

Talbott assured him that he had the money in cash; that for the present he had no use for it, and that it would gratify him to do this favor. And it was arranged that on Friday the school-teacher should come with an assignment of the subscriptions and receive the money.

In a small country community everything is known. A few days later, when Talbott entered the village on his way to the post-office, the storekeeper stopped him.

"I thought you was short of money," he said.

Talbott, who divined some reference to the fertilizer, sought refuge in an ambiguity.

"Well, yes," he said, "I've been a little hard up this fall."

The storekeeper nodded his head. "I knew it wasn't so," he said.

Talbott saw that the man referred to some other incident. "What wasn't so?"

"That you was goin' to advance the school-teacher twenty dollars."

Then Talbott realized the position into which he had unwittingly entered. He made some equivocal reply and went on to the post-office. He was greatly disturbed. He saw no way out of this dilemma except to say that he found himself unable to carry out his suggestion. And, obtaining a sheet of paper and a stamped envelop from the post-master, he wrote a letter to the school-teacher.

There is this disadvantage in a life of integrity, that an indiscretion is all the more conspicuously marked. One does not observe a stain upon that which is already stained; it is the white background that proclaims it.

A few days later the school-teacher came into the village with the letter which he had received; he was disappointed, and he went about showing the letter, and explaining that Talbott had agreed to advance him the money, and had then repudiated that agreement. He had made his arrangements to depart, depending on what Talbott had said, and he complained.

When the gossip came to the store-keeper's wife, she said, "I always knew that ol' Talbott was crooked."

These two contracts from which Talbott had withdrawn after his word had been given, his conflicting statements about the possession of money, and his disingenuous excuses were discussed. Such conduct in one hitherto beyond reproach aggravated the obliquity of it, and public opinion began to reform itself upon this data.

Without hearing it directly, Talbott became aware of this change. Such a thing is intangible, like the air, but, like the air, perceptible. He felt it moving around him, extending itself, gaining with every day.

This change in public opinion presently became indicated in certain acts which Talbott understood, but could not resent. When, in the course of his petty trades, an element was his promise to do certain things on his part, it was suggested that the agreement be reduced to writing. And when an element was his promise to pay money, he was asked for an earnest upon the bargain. He recognized these requests as the ones which he himself had been accustomed to exact when dealing with persons not entirely to be trusted. And he recognized the excuses with which they were suggested as the very ones which he had made to the tricky and unreliable—namely, the uncertainty of life and the custom and usage of trade.

Deeply smitten by this evident distrust, he strove to discover in what esteem he was held; and he endeavored in every way that he could to surprise this secret out of those with whom he conversed and with whom he associated. But in this he never succeeded.

In such old, isolated communities, public opinion insinuates itself behind the amenities of life. By the word and by the manner of his neighbors one cannot learn that he has fallen. The liar will be no longer believed, and the thief no longer trusted, but he will not hear it from his neighbor's mouth. In the multitude of excuses, and in the safeguards with which his neighbor hedges himself about, it will sufficiently appear. Nevertheless, like one ill of some desperate malady, who suspects the physician of having warned his family while offering to himself consoling words, Talbott, in his manner and by the subtleties of speech, probed for the truth. But it was by accident that he found it.

One evening in the village he passed some children at play; they spoke to him pleasantly, but when he had gone by he heard the storekeeper's little girl remark to a companion, "You'd think ol' Talbott would be ashamed to show his face after my pap caught him in a lie."

Talbott went on, but the truth was now naked before him. He walked past the blacksmith's shop, out to the little house by the roadside where the shoemaker kept the village post-office. There he stopped and reflected; this matter must be somehow cleared up. It was unjust that he should be so regarded. But how could he clear it up? How could he explain? What could he say? The incidents going to establish this conclusion were all incontrovertible. And yet this opinion of him was unjust. He had been caught in a certain conjunction of events and carried forward, whither he had not willed. His theory of life had been very simple—that one received here what his acts deserved. Virtue had its reward, and its negation its reward. And over the affairs of men a Judge presided who dealt according to this rule of thumb. One controlled events. One's agency was free. What one did and what one did not were wholly matters of one's own selection. Or how else could the scheme of things be just? He had depended on this theory, and now, somehow, it had failed him.

That night alone in his house, he sat for a long time before the fire. He was perplexed. He was like a litigant who has got an unjust decision from a judge whose integrity he cannot doubt. Such a one reviews each detail in his case with painful recurrence, seeking that aspect of it which could have influenced the court against him.. And Talbott, like that litigant, believed himself the victim of some error. Certain injustices were, in this case, too clearly indicated. His conscience was not against him; he had intended no injury to any man, and he had, in fact, done no man an injury; and yet as a result of certain trivial events he would be ruined.

And after he had gone to bed he lay a long time staring at the whitewashed ceiling. How could it happen that one questionable thing outweighed all those blameless acts that heretofore had made up the sum total of his life? He had told the truth innumerable times; he had dealt fairly innumerable times; and yet the force and virtue of this mass yielded before a single disingenuous incident, and that incident of the most trifling moment. How did it happen that such a hideous virility lay in those events that are hostile to us?

He could not sleep, and he got up and went out onto the porch of his house. A fog was rising from the river and creeping across the field slowly toward him, and he thought how this heavy mist symbolized that sinister influence which had been let loose against him, and which he could neither seize nor resist. And the oldest explanation in the world to account for the evil potentiality of incidents otherwise slight and trifling occurred to him—that by virtue of supernal powers, and through the agency of vicious persons, petty things were sometimes charged with an influence that compelled one to an evil destiny. And he recalled all the housewives' tales and all the scraps of legend that in every community lie incrusted on this ancient belief.

The hard common sense of the man dismissed this testimony. But that vague fear which lay at the root of this belief he could not dismiss. And, in spite of the sane conclusions of his reason, he began to associate his ill fortune with the possession of this twenty-dollar bill. Here were incidents of the family of those tales: the thing was a piece of money, and he had got it from a gipsy.

He returned to his bed, but ho did not sleep. The suggestion remained, and he continued to regard it. The man's austere religion, rooted in the Hebrew Scriptures, accepted certain ancient legends that comprehended this idea. The ruin of men, innocent of wrong, of women, of children, of whole tribes and cities, had followed the possession of articles in themselves harmless, but charged with an evil influence. And here a suggestion presented itself, namely, that of some expiators' act. And vaguely, through the half-sleep into which he presently entered, this idea moved with the problem that disturbed him.

The following day this suggestion took on the habiliments of fancy and withdrew. Talbott went about his labors. The health of the sun and of the air encouraged him, and he endeavored to believe that the change in public opinion had not been so great or of so wide an influence. But an event of the afternoon eviscerated this hope.

When he came in from the field he saw a man sitting on his porch and a horse tied at the gate. The man was the Superintendent of Free Schools, and, as Talbott was a member of the district board, this call did not disturb him. The man remained during the entire afternoon. He talked with Talbott on every conceivable subject except that one which had moved him to this visit. As the hours passed, and the man's conversation remained general, Talbott became uneasy. He knew what this subterfuge portended; when one had a disagreeable thing to say he remained for a long time, and always approached it after an interminable discussion of subjects in no way related to it. Talbott's anxiety was presently justified.

When the Superintendent of Schools had finished his visit and gone out to his horse, he finally said the word:

"By-the-way, Mr. Talbott, the people think that the school board ought to be made up of men who have children to educate—naturally a man with a family could afford to give more of his time to school matters; so, if you have no objection, the people would like to have Henry Lightwood on the board."

Talbott was forced to express himself as satisfied with this successor, and the Superintendent of Schools rode away.

Talbott was not deceived by these excuses. And that night the idea of some sinister influence attached to the piece of money assailed and possessed him. The reputation which during a lifetime he had laboriously established seemed now to be attacked by a deadly and insidious erosion. He was like one forced to observe a bronze which he cherished, eaten by some invisible agencies lying in the very odors of his garden. And on every occasion and at every hour he could see the metal that once had been so hard and bright scaling from the figure, and he could see this figure, that once had been a thing of beauty, changing perceptibly into something formless.

And the suggestion of an expiatory act returned to him with a greater force. Those visited by misfortune have in all ages believed that the authority moving events could be appeased. One brought an offering to the temple, or cast a gift into the sea. And, under forms and subterfuges, the custom remains. This man, possessed by fear, and prepared by the precedents abounding in the sacred books of his religion, moved toward this idea.

The following Sunday an itinerant minister preached at the church. This man was a sort of celebrity, who on occasion traveled through the country. The unrestraint of his speech and his violent and erratic manner assured him an audience. On this day the grove before the church was filled with horses; every seat in the church was occupied, and persons stood along the wall. Talbott sat on the first bench before the pulpit. He had made up his mind about what he intended to do, and when the man called upon him to take up the collection, he put the twenty-dollar bill into his hat.

The minister rose and began to speak to the congregation while the collection went forward. In order to prick this man to some intemperate speech, it had been the custom of certain mischievous persons to put mutilated coins, tokens, and the like into his collection, and it was against this habit that he now uttered his invective. He threatened such offenders with the law. Such acts were comprehended by the criminal statutes against counterfeit money; they were felonies, punishable by imprisonment in the penitentiary. He had consulted with the authorities. He would put up with it no longer. And with gestures and with violence he presented the terrors and the severities of the law.

The dense crowd forced Talbott to move slowly, and as the minister spoke he was seized with terror. He had not thought of the law, and the fear of it chilled him. If this bill were counterfeit, he was on the point of committing a crime. This man would denounce him, and he would be wholly and inextricably ruined. And as the minister continued, and as he went forward with the collection, the thing which he was about to do seemed to be the very refinement of madness. Finally appalled by the danger, as he turned the collection out onto the table he slipped the bill into his hand, and, returning to his seat, got it into his pocket. He was cold and his body was sprayed with sweat. He sat on the bench breathing deeply, like one who, with his foot extended, is plucked backward from an abyss.

When the minister announced the result of the collection, some eighteen dollars, there was a whispering about the congregation, and when the service was concluded some persons went forward to speak with the minister. This was usual, and without giving it any attention Talbott went out with the crowd. He had got his horse, when some one came to the door and called him; when he entered there was a little crowd in discussion before the pulpit. The minister came forward.

"Brother Talbott," he said, "I wish you'd look under the band of your hat; some of the congregation thought they saw a twenty-dollar bill in the collection." And he began to explain how, when the hat was turned over, money sometimes slipped under the band and remained there.

Talbott was appalled. He presented his hat and began to turn up the band. But nothing appeared.

The persons standing around the minister made no comment while Talbott remained. But when he had gone out somebody said:

"An' he's a thief, too!"

 

On an afternoon of early March, Talbott rode again down the wooded hill from the country church. Beyond him the great road ran over the mountains into the South. He was on his way into some new country. He had sold his little farm, and about him, on the horse, he carried all that he possessed. At the turn of the wood he saw several covered wagons moving along the great road from the direction of the mountains. He continued to observe them now and then through the openings of the trees. Finally, at the foot of the hill, he met these wagons. As he approached, in the last team he saw his old horse that he had traded to the gipsy. He stopped. The man walking beside the wagon ran over, and, lifting the foot of Talbott's horse, began to examine it.

"He's got well," he said, "the young horse. I have sorrow to trade him." Then he rose. "But a child was to be born and I must get to my own people then."

Ho drew back a corner of the tarpaulin and revealed a woman holding a baby in her arms.

Talbott was not listening to this speech; he had been getting out his wallet,

"I want you to take back this counterfeit money," he said.

The gipsy looked puzzled.

"What is that you say, mister?"

Talbott presented the twenty-dollar bill.

"I want you to take back this counterfeit money that you gave me."

The gipsy came over to Talbott; he looked at the faded bill, then his face brightened with comprehension.

"That money, mister, it have been wet with water, but bad! no, it is good. I will give you gold."

And he handed Talbott two eagles.