A Society for the Reformation of Poker Players

"A Society for the Reformation of Poker Players," written by Robert Barr, is a humorous and satirical novella that examines the world of poker and its players. Set in the late 19th century, the story follows a group of poker enthusiasts who seek to reform their behavior and attitudes toward the game, reflecting on themes of morality, vice, and societal norms. Through witty dialogue and clever observations, Barr critiques the gambling culture of his time while also exploring the camaraderie and rivalries that emerge within this unique social circle. The novella offers a lighthearted yet insightful glimpse into the complexities of human nature and the allure of chance.

• Humour
• Novel

								
“O Unseen Hand that ever makes and deals us,
          And plays our game!
That now obscures and then to light reveals us,
          Serves blanks of fame
How vain our shuffling, bluff and weak pretending!
’Tis Thou alone can name the final ending”

The seductive game of poker is one that I do not understand. I do not
care to understand it, because it cannot be played without the putting
up of a good deal of the coin of the realm, and although I have nothing
to say against betting, my own theory of conduct in the matter is this,
that I want no man’s money which I do not earn, and I do not want any
man to get my money unless he earns it. So it happens, in the matter of
cards, I content myself with euchre and other games which do not
require the wagering of money.

On board the Atlantic steamers there is always more or less gambling. I
have heard it said that men make trips to and fro merely for the
purpose of fleecing their fellow-passengers; but, except in one
instance, I never had any experience with this sort of thing.

Our little society for the reformation of poker players, or to speak
more correctly, for the reformation of one particular poker player, was
formed one bright starlight night, latitude such a number, and
longitude something else, as four of us sat on a seat at the extreme
rear end of the great steamer. We four, with one other, sat at a small
table in the saloon. One of the small tables on a Transatlantic steamer
is very pleasant if you have a nice crowd with you. A seat at a small
table compares with a seat at the large table as living in a village
compares with living in a city. You have some individuality at the
short table; you are merely one of a crowd at the long table. Our small
table was not quite full. I had the honour of sitting at the head of
it, and on each side of me were two young fellows, making five
altogether. We all rather prided ourselves on the fact that there were
no ladies at our little table.

The young Englishman who sat at my right hand at the corner of the
table was going out to America to learn farming. I could, myself, have
taught him a good deal about it, but I refrained from throwing cold
water on his enthusiastic ideas about American agriculture. His notion
was that it was an occupation mostly made up of hunting and fishing,
and having a good time generally. The profits, he thought, were large
and easily acquired. He had guns with him, and beautiful fishing-rods,
and things of that sort. He even had a vague idea that he might be able
to introduce fox-hunting in the rural district to which he was going.
He understood, and regretted the fact, that we in the United States
were rather behind-hand in the matter of fox-hunting. He had a good
deal of money with him, I understood, and he had already paid a hundred
pounds to a firm in England that had agreed to place him on a farm in
America. Of course, now that the money had been paid, there was no use
in telling the young man he had been a fool. He would find that out
soon enough when he got to America. Henry Storm was his name, and a
milder mannered man with a more unsuitable name could hardly be found.
The first two or three days out he was the life of our party. We all
liked him, in fact, nobody could help liking him; but, as the voyage
progressed, he grew more and more melancholy, and, what was really
serious, took little food, which is not natural in an Englishman. I
thought somebody had been telling him what a fool he had been to pay
away his hundred pounds before leaving England, but young Smith of
Rochester, who sat at my left, told me what the trouble was one day as
we walked the deck. “Do you know,” he began, “that Henry Storm is being
robbed?”

“Being robbed?” I answered; “you mean he has been robbed.”

“Well, has been, and is being, too. The thing is going on yet. He is
playing altogether too much poker in the smoking-room, and has lost a
pile of money—more, I imagine, than he can well afford.”

“That’s what’s the trouble with him, is it? Well, he ought to know
better than to play for bigger stakes than he can afford to lose.”

“Oh, it’s easy to say that; but he’s in the hands of a swindler, of a
professional gambler. You see that man?” He lowered his voice as he
spoke, and I looked in the direction of his glance. By this time we
knew, in a way, everybody on board the ship. The particular man Smith
pointed out was a fellow I had noticed a good deal, who was very quiet
and gentlemanly, interfering with nobody, and talking with few. I had
spoken to him once, but he had answered rather shortly, and, apparently
to his relief, and certainly to my own, our acquaintance ceased where
it began. He had jet black beard and hair, both rather closely clipped;
and he wore a fore and aft cap, which never improves a man’s appearance
very much.

“That man,” continued Smith, as he passed us, “was practically under
arrest for gambling on the steamer in which I came over. It seems that
he is a regular professional gambler, who does nothing but go across
the ocean and back again, fleecing young fellows like Storm.”

“Does he cheat?” I asked.

“He doesn’t need to. He plays poker. An old hand, and a cool one, has
no occasion to cheat at that game to get a young one’s money away from
him.”

“Then why doesn’t some one warn young Storm?”

“Well, that’s just what I wanted to speak to you about. I think it
ought to be done. I think we should call a meeting of our table,
somewhere out here in the quiet, and have a talk over it, and make up
our mind what is to be done. It’s a delicate matter, you know, and I am
afraid we are a little late as it is. I do believe young Storm has lost
nearly all his money to that fellow.”

“Can’t he be made to disgorge?”

“How? The money has been won fairly enough, as that sort of thing goes.
Other fellows have played with them. It isn’t as if he had been caught
cheating—he hasn’t, and won’t be. He doesn’t cheat—he doesn’t need to,
as I said before. Now that gambler pretends he is a commercial
traveller from Buffalo. I know Buffalo down to the ground, so I took
him aside yesterday and said plumply to him, ‘What firm in Buffalo do
you represent?’ He answered shortly that his business was his own
affair. I said, ‘Certainly it is, and you are quite right in keeping it
dark. When I was coming over to Europe, I saw a man in your line of
business who looked very much like you, practically put under arrest by
the purser for gambling. You were travelling for a St. Louis house
then.’”

“What did he say to that?”

“Nothing; he just gave me one of those sly, sinister looks of his,
turned on his heel, and left me.”

The result of this conversation was the inauguration of the Society for
the Reforming of a Poker Player. It was agreed between us that if young
Storm had lost all his money we would subscribe enough as a loan to
take care of him until he got a remittance from home. Of course we knew

								Rate this book:0.0 / 0 votes