The Gamble (I) by Lavyrle Spencer Page B

barkeeper—aware of his guilt. We shall not destroy the vile compound he sells. Instead, we will give his clientele something more powerful to lean on—faith in his God, his family, and hope for his future.”
    Miss Wilson knew when to evangelize and when to cease. She had them aroused now. To bag them for the cause, all she needed were three or four gut-wrenching stories from their own lips.
    “You’ve all been at home growing impatient for this day. Now is the time. Bare your hearts to your sisters who understand. They’ve suffered what you’ve suffered. Who would like to rid themselves of their grief first?”
    The women exchanged furtive glances, but none came forward.
    Wilson pressed on. “Remember, we, your sisters, are not here to judge, but to support.”
    Through the saloon wall came the cry of “Keno!” And from the piano, “Over the Waves.” Thirty-six self-conscious women all waited for someone else to start.
    Agatha’s teeth and hands clenched. Her own agonizing memories came back from her past. She considered telling her story at last, but she had held it inside for so long she was unable to bring it forth. Already an object of a certain amount of pity, she had no desire to be pitied further, so she held her silence.
    The first to speak was Florence Loretto. “My son...” she began. Every eye settled on her. All was silent. “My son, Dan. He was always a good boy when he was young. But when my husband was alive, he used to send the boy down to the saloon to fetch his whiskey. Claimed he had a touch of the rheumatism and hot toddies took the pain out of his joints. That’s how it started. But by the time he died, he was liquored up more than he was sober. He was a grown man, but Dan... Dan was young, and he’dfound out he liked the atmosphere at the saloon. Now he’s dealing cards right next door, and I... I...” Florence covered her face with one hand. “I’m so ashamed, I can’t face my friends.”
    Addie Anderson rubbed Florence’s shoulder and offered, quietly, “It’s all right, Florence. We all understand. You did what you thought best when you were bringing him up.” She faced Miss Wilson as she went on forthrightly. “My husband, Floyd, he used to be sober as a judge, except for maybe when somebody got married or on the Fourth of July. But he got sickly a couple years back and had to take on somebody to look after the shop while he was down. Jenks, his name was, fine-lookin’ young man from St. Louis, with letters to recommend him. But they was all phony. Jenks got his fingers in the books and rigged ‘em so’s he could swindle us without Floyd ever knowin’ what he was up to. By the time Floyd discovered it, it was too late. Jenks was gone, and so was the nice nest egg we’d saved up. That’s when Floyd started takin’ to drink. I try to tell him, ‘Floyd,’ I says, ‘what good does it do to spend what little money we got gettin’ drunk every night?’ But he don’t listen to nothin’ I say. We lost the store and Floyd went to clerk for Halorhan, but it’s a big come-down to him, clerkin’, after he was his own boss all those years. The money Halorhan pays him goes nearly all for whiskey, and we’re behind six months on our account at the store. Halorhan’s been good, but lately he’s been warnin’ Floyd, if he don’t pay some on what we been chargin’, he’s gonna have to let him go. Then...” Suddenly Addie broke into tears. “Ohh...” she wailed.
    It made Florence Loretto’s plight seem less drastic, and she, in turn, comforted Addie.
    After that the women opened up, one by one. Their plights were all similar, though some stories were more pitiful than others. Agatha waited for Annie Macintosh to admit where she got the bruise on her cheek. But Annie, like Agatha, remained silent.
    When a lull fell, Drusilla Wilson took the meeting in hand once again. “Sisters, you have our love and support. But to be effective, we must organize. And