sixteen years old.
After that he played three nights a week. He carefully calculated his
winnings from each man so that he never won enough from any one to anger
him. His winnings were steady and constant, never varying more than fifty
cents from the sum he predicted for the night. In a few months he had
five hundred dollars in a cigar box in his room. The cigar box bulged
with old tattered one-dollar bills, slick new fives, an occasional ten
and a pile of silver coins.
One day he heard a fireman state that the landlord's son was too good at
poker not to be a cheater. Several of the other men nodded agreement. That
night he got into the game on the first hand.
Carefully and very slowly he began to boost the bets. He made all of the
men commit themselves equally and by midnight a few of them were beginning
to sweat and the smoke around the shaded light was thick and yellow.
By three o'clock the pots were averaging over fifty dollars each. The eyes
around the table had turned red and the floor was littered with sandwich
crusts and empty whisky bottles. Hank had won four hundred dollars by
then. He went relentlessly after the rest and by dawn he had all the money
on the board and a note from one of the railroaders that he owed Hank
$66. Finally he played them for their change, for the nickels and dimes
in their pockets. He played one engineer for his Waltham and stuck it in
his pocket when he won. Some of the losers began to complain, but Hank
ignored them and went on playing. Toward the end he made such large bets
that even men with good hands could not afford to back up their cards.
When he had all of the visible money on the table, he said he was going
to the toilet and left the room. He went to his room, packed a wicker
suitcase full of clothes and climbed out a window. He walked to the
railroad yard and swung up into an empty boxcar. The next day he was in
Bismarck . . .
"Why did you come to Manual Arts High after all that?" Mike asked when
Hank was finished. "You could be a professional gambler."
"Too boring," Hank said. "Gambling is the hardest way in the world to
earn a living. Show me a gambler and I'll show you either a man bored
stiff or a knucklehead . . . or both."
"Do you ever hear from your father?"
"No. Not a word."
"Why don't you write him? I heard Jews were supposed to be great family
people . . . always taking care of one another and watching out for other
members of the family."
"Sure, Mike. You hear a lot of things that aren't so," Hank said and
grinned. "That's one of them. I'll tell you some more later."
A mile ahead of them a Portuguese sheepherder was trying to move a thousand
sheep across the road. Like a formless tide the sheep ebbed onto the highway
and then stood there motionless as the sheep dogs circled and barked. Hank
slowed the car and came to a stop a few feet from the closest sheep.
"Well, I'll be damned," Mike said. "That guy probably had all week to
get those sheep across the road and he has to pick the time when we
are passing. What's wrong with that crazy guy?" He glared out at the
sheepherder, his face working with anger. Suddenly he turned to Hank and
his face wore the wolfish raw grin that Hank hated. "It's like everything
else, Hank. You have to get out and fight for what's yours. I'll get us
through this god damn herd of sheep. Just follow close."
"Get back in the car, Mike," Hank yelled. "It will only take a few
minutes for them to cross the road."
Mike grinned back over his shoulder. He walked toward the sheep and
began kicking them. The sheep squealed in surprise, pushed sideways
and away from the car. Mike walked steadily forward, kicking, pushing,
cursing. The Portuguese sheepherder swore and shouted, the dogs barked
and ran in frantic circles. Slowly the Model-A with Mike leading the
way pushed through the dusty panicked herd of sheep. Finally they were
through the sheep and the road was open.
Mike got back into the
After that he played three nights a week. He carefully calculated his
winnings from each man so that he never won enough from any one to anger
him. His winnings were steady and constant, never varying more than fifty
cents from the sum he predicted for the night. In a few months he had
five hundred dollars in a cigar box in his room. The cigar box bulged
with old tattered one-dollar bills, slick new fives, an occasional ten
and a pile of silver coins.
One day he heard a fireman state that the landlord's son was too good at
poker not to be a cheater. Several of the other men nodded agreement. That
night he got into the game on the first hand.
Carefully and very slowly he began to boost the bets. He made all of the
men commit themselves equally and by midnight a few of them were beginning
to sweat and the smoke around the shaded light was thick and yellow.
By three o'clock the pots were averaging over fifty dollars each. The eyes
around the table had turned red and the floor was littered with sandwich
crusts and empty whisky bottles. Hank had won four hundred dollars by
then. He went relentlessly after the rest and by dawn he had all the money
on the board and a note from one of the railroaders that he owed Hank
$66. Finally he played them for their change, for the nickels and dimes
in their pockets. He played one engineer for his Waltham and stuck it in
his pocket when he won. Some of the losers began to complain, but Hank
ignored them and went on playing. Toward the end he made such large bets
that even men with good hands could not afford to back up their cards.
When he had all of the visible money on the table, he said he was going
to the toilet and left the room. He went to his room, packed a wicker
suitcase full of clothes and climbed out a window. He walked to the
railroad yard and swung up into an empty boxcar. The next day he was in
Bismarck . . .
"Why did you come to Manual Arts High after all that?" Mike asked when
Hank was finished. "You could be a professional gambler."
"Too boring," Hank said. "Gambling is the hardest way in the world to
earn a living. Show me a gambler and I'll show you either a man bored
stiff or a knucklehead . . . or both."
"Do you ever hear from your father?"
"No. Not a word."
"Why don't you write him? I heard Jews were supposed to be great family
people . . . always taking care of one another and watching out for other
members of the family."
"Sure, Mike. You hear a lot of things that aren't so," Hank said and
grinned. "That's one of them. I'll tell you some more later."
A mile ahead of them a Portuguese sheepherder was trying to move a thousand
sheep across the road. Like a formless tide the sheep ebbed onto the highway
and then stood there motionless as the sheep dogs circled and barked. Hank
slowed the car and came to a stop a few feet from the closest sheep.
"Well, I'll be damned," Mike said. "That guy probably had all week to
get those sheep across the road and he has to pick the time when we
are passing. What's wrong with that crazy guy?" He glared out at the
sheepherder, his face working with anger. Suddenly he turned to Hank and
his face wore the wolfish raw grin that Hank hated. "It's like everything
else, Hank. You have to get out and fight for what's yours. I'll get us
through this god damn herd of sheep. Just follow close."
"Get back in the car, Mike," Hank yelled. "It will only take a few
minutes for them to cross the road."
Mike grinned back over his shoulder. He walked toward the sheep and
began kicking them. The sheep squealed in surprise, pushed sideways
and away from the car. Mike walked steadily forward, kicking, pushing,
cursing. The Portuguese sheepherder swore and shouted, the dogs barked
and ran in frantic circles. Slowly the Model-A with Mike leading the
way pushed through the dusty panicked herd of sheep. Finally they were
through the sheep and the road was open.
Mike got back into the
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