"It's no use," said the boy, reading my hesitation. "I've broken
loose. I must have a slice of the old college life, just for
to-night."
I decided the half-cut of Indian blood on his mother's side was
showing itself; it was just enough to give Tom a good red flavoring
and a rare taste for gaming and liquor.
We played until daylight, when Barrett said he must make his sneak
home, and reaching for his wide-brimmed, soft felt preacher's hat,
left--having pocketed twenty-six of our good dollars, swallowed
unnumbered cups of twelve-year-old and won the combined respect of
everyone at Jake's.
The next Sunday Jake went to church out of curiosity. He said Tom
Barrett "officiated" in a surplice as white as snow and with a face
as sinless as your mother's. He preached most eloquently against
the terrible evil of the illicit liquor trade, and implored his
Indian flock to resist this greatest of all pitfalls. Jake even
seemed impressed as he told us.
But Tom Barrett's "breaking loose for once" was like any other
man's. Night after night saw him at Jake's, though he never
played to win after that first game. As the weeks went on, he got
anxious-looking; his clerical coat began to grow seedy, his white
ties uncared for; he lost his fresh, cheeky talk, and the climax
came late in March when one night I found him at Jake's sitting
alone, his face bowed down on the table above his folded arms, and
something so disheartened in his attitude that I felt sorry for
the boy.
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