To New York on the Mauretania—Gambling on ocean liners—A “dear” old gentleman—Phenomenal luck—My suspicions are aroused—I play the part of a private detective—A puzzling proposition—The light that shone by night—My suspicions are confirmed—An artful dodge—A new use for smoke-coloured glasses—Doctored cards—The most beautiful American city—Los Angeles—Tuna-fishing at Santa Catalina—Monsters of 400-lb. weight—The Tuna Club—A record catch—Fishing with kites—Wild goat stalking—Outwitting a gambler—Diamond cut diamond—A ride on an ostrich—American police methods—An unpleasant experience.

Travelling to America on the Mauretania some years back, I had a rather unusual experience. As most people are perfectly well aware, these crack trans-Atlantic liners are frequently infested by card-sharpers, who prey upon the unwary amongst the passengers, and often reap large harvests in ready cash as the result of their misdirected enterprise.

I always, when travelling, make it a point to study these gentry, and as a rule it is no very difficult matter for me to detect their particular methods of swindling; when, of course, I make it my business to quietly warn such others of the saloon passengers as may be in the habit of playing cards in the smoke-room.

On this occasion, however, there was amongst the card-players one whose methods frankly puzzled me. He was a most benevolent-looking old chap, white-haired and bespectacled, very pleasant and affable, and hail-fellow-well-met with everybody. Nevertheless there was something about him that convinced me that he was a crook.

His luck was simply marvellous. For three nights I watched him win with uncanny regularity; yet, though I studied him closely all the while, following his every movement with my eyes, I could detect nothing wrong with his play. All the same, however, I became more and more convinced that I was not mistaken in my estimate of him. The man was a sharper, beyond the shadow of a doubt. I could tell by watching his play that he knew what cards the other players held.

On the fourth evening, after play, during which he won as usual, the cards happened to be left behind on the smoke-room table. I quietly pocketed them, and took them down to my cabin, where I spent over an hour examining them one by one by the aid of a microscope. My labour was in vain. I could detect absolutely nothing wrong with the cards, which were those ordinarily sold on board ship at eightpence a pack.

On the following night I again watched him closely, and was more than ever convinced that I was not mistaken. On this occasion poker was being played, and his winnings amounted to over £200. During the game one of the other players, either because his suspicions were aroused, or perhaps simply with the idea of changing his luck, ordered another pack of cards, and these were duly supplied by one of the stewards in the usual sealed package, which was opened by the man who ordered and paid for them.

This, of course, seemed to do away entirely with any chance of his having been able to mark the cards beforehand. Yet still he went on winning, and still I continued to watch him, like a cat watching a mouse. The sole result was that I was more puzzled than ever. The thing began to get on my nerves. Here was I a professional card-manipulator, a man who knew, or at all events thought he knew, every trick on the board; and here was a man whom I knew in my mind to be a card-sharper, and yet I could not detect his method of swindling. It made me wild.

The day before we got into New York he had another good night, by far the best he had had during the voyage. His luck was the talk of the ship. “Luck!” said I to myself, and ground my teeth in rage to think how he had outwitted us all. He had not had any of my money, it was true. I had seen to that. But nevertheless I was furious to think I could not find out how the trick was worked.

Again I secured possession of the cards he had been playing with, and again I examined them under the microscope in the quiet seclusion of my own cabin. I spread them out on my dressing-table, and sat there for a couple of hours or more, studying them, peering at them, fingering them back and front. The net result of it all was the same as on the previous occasion. I could detect nothing whatever wrong with them, and in the end I gave it up as a bad job, switched off the light, and tumbled into bed, leaving the pack of cards backs uppermost on the dressing-table.

About four o’clock in the morning, and when it was still quite dark, I awoke, and had occasion to get out of my bunk. While on my feet, groping round for the electric light switch, I saw something sparkle on the dressing-table, and thinking it might be my diamond ring, I reached out my hand in order to pick it up. To my surprise it was not there. I switched on the light and the sparkle disappeared. Investigation showed me that my diamond ring was safe in a little covered box I used to keep my jewellery in. There was the usual litter of things on the dressing-table, but nothing, so far as I could see, that was at all likely to sparkle in the dark.

Somewhat mystified, I switched the light off again, and at once the tiny twinkling point of fire flashed into being again. Then I knew. It emanated from the pack of cards; from the topmost card, that was exposed back uppermost.

Once more I switched the light on, and laid the cards out face downwards on the table. Then I switched it off again; and the mystery stood revealed. Every single card was marked on the top right-hand corner on the back with a luminous substance, which I found out later was a patent preparation of phosphorous oil.

The marks were only tiny dots the size of a pin-point, and each card was marked with two dots, no more and no less. The position of one dot indicated the suit, the position of the other the value of the card. The dots were arranged in positions corresponding with the figures on a watch-face. For instance, one dot placed where the big hand would be at half-past the hour, meant that the card was a six, another dot indicating the suit. Similarly if the dot was where the big hand would be at a quarter-past the hour, it meant that the card was a three, and so on. The knave and queen were eleven and twelve o’clock. The king, the thirteenth card, was shown by a dot placed in the centre where the hands meet. Looked at in the light, the tiny marks were quite invisible. They could only be seen in the dark—or by a person looking at them through dark-coloured glasses. The old gentleman, I suddenly recollected, always wore, when playing, spectacles of a peculiar smoky hue.

One thing, however, still puzzled me; and that was how the old rogue had obtained possession of the cards in order to mark them. I jumped to the conclusion in the beginning that he was probably in league with one of the under-stewards, who had access to the place where the packs for sale to the passengers were kept in stock. But this, I discovered later, was not so. What had happened was this:

On the second day out the dear, affable, old gentleman had organised a whist drive for the ladies, himself providing the prizes, and had ordered in advance from the chief steward a dozen and a half packs of cards. Only eight of these were used, as he had easily foreseen, there being only eight tables. The ten unopened packs he had returned to the chief steward the next morning, with the remark that he had overestimated the number of players taking part in the drive.

This much was clear. The rest I had to guess. But there was no difficulty, in my mind at all events, in supplying the missing links in the chain of evidence. He had had the twelve packs in his possession one whole night. What was easier than for him to steam them carefully open in the seclusion of his cabin, mark them with the phosphorous oil, and then re-seal them? The chief steward would hardly be likely to examine the packs very critically when they were returned to him, and even if he had done so, he would not in all probability have been able to detect that they had been tampered with.

Well, I felt pleased as Punch at having solved the riddle. The only question that agitated me now was whether I ought to expose the old rascal. I thought the matter over very carefully, and in the end I decided not to do so. For one thing, any action of that kind would quite possibly have led to his being arrested on his arrival at New York, and myself being detained there as a witness; an eventuality which would not at all have suited my plans. For another thing, I reflected, the mischief was already done; he could win no more money that voyage, seeing that this was our last day at sea. So I let him go, and I noticed that he was one of the first over the gangway when we arrived at New York.

Later on I instituted a few discreet inquiries about the old gent from a New York detective whose acquaintance I made, but I could not get him to admit that he knew him, or even that he haled from New York at all. “He’s probably a Chicago crook,” he remarked. “There’s a lot of snide gamblers make Chicago their headquarters.”

That’s the Americans all over. They are awfully proud of their own particular city, and can never be got to admit that there is anything wrong with it. Almost the first question a stranger is invariably asked on his arrival in, say, New York, or Boston, or Philadelphia, is whether he doesn’t consider New York, or Boston, or Philadelphia, as the case may be, the finest and most beautiful city he was ever in.

For my part I always used to answer the questions in the affirmative, no matter where I might be, but my own private opinion is that Los Angeles is far and away the most beautiful of American cities. It was while I was performing there, by the way, that I had my first and only experience of tuna-fishing. This was at Santa Catalina Island, which lies off the coast of California in the Pacific Ocean.

The tuna is a gigantic mackerel, weighing anything from 80 lb. up to 400 lb., and even more, and is the strongest and gamest fish that swims. “When you go tuna-fishing,” I was told, “you must be prepared to hook something like a thirty-knot torpedo-boat.”

The favourite haunt of the tuna is the warm shallow water round Santa Catalina. He comes there after the flying-fish, which form his favourite food, and angling enthusiasts flock there in the season from all parts of the world in order to enjoy the sport of killing him.

There are two species of tuna found at Santa Catalina, the blue-finned and the yellow-finned. The first-named is by far the bigger. I had to be content with the latter, as the blue-finned kind was not in evidence during my stay on the island. I regretted this greatly, for I was assured on all sides that to kill a genuine blue-finned leaping tuna with rod and line was something to be proud of—a feat to be remembered and talked about for the rest of one’s life.

This I can quite believe, judging by the stories I heard. I was told, for instance, of a new-comer on the island, a perfect novice at the game, who at his first attempt played a gigantic blue-finned tuna for five hours without assistance, and finally killed it. The youthful angler—he was little more than a boy—was taken ashore fainting, a fingernail gone, a thumb dislocated, the palms of both hands skinned, blistered, and bleeding, and his strained arms rendered useless for days. But he was radiantly happy; for he had qualified on his very first day for the Tuna Club—the blue riband of ocean angling. To become a member of this exclusive association the fisherman must catch and kill with unbroken rod a fish weighing not less than 100 lb. It need not, however, necessarily be a tuna. A barracouta will do, or an albicore, or a black bass. Some of these latter fish run up to 500 lb. (nearly a quarter of a ton) and are as fierce and game as tigers. I was told of one of 327 lb. weight that was played for seven and a half hours. At the end of that period it broke its captor’s wrist by a sudden sidelong jump. A second angler then came to the rescue, and played it for another five and a half hours before killing it.

As regards tuna, the record weight for one of these fish brought to boat by rod and line is, I was informed, 251 lb. But monsters of this size are comparatively rare, and still rarer is it for them to be captured after this fashion. To do so demands of the angler a combination of skill, strength, nerve, judgment, and several other qualities, plus any amount of dogged determination and abnormal staying power. As illustrating my meaning I may mention that a former president of the Tuna Club, Mr. Charles F. Holder, had his boat towed ten miles by quite a moderate-sized fish (183 lb.) which fought gamely for hours on end, never sulking a minute. Another angler was dragged more than fourteen miles under similar circumstances, and had his arm broken into the bargain.

None of these exciting experiences, I need scarcely say, came my way; for, as I have already intimated, the big blue-finned tuna had not then arrived off the island, and I had to be content with trying my luck and skill on the smaller yellow-finned variety. With these, however, I was, so I was assured, quite unusually successful. My partner and I between us killed altogether thirty-three fine fish in eight hours. Of these twenty-six were tuna, two rock bass, and five skipjack.

This, I was told, constituted a record for novices, such as we were, and we had our catch photographed. I have a copy of the picture in my possession, with underneath it the following inscription: “Record catch of yellow-finned tuna by ‘Carlton,’ the English Magician, and Dr. Lartigau of San Francisco, aggregate weight 350 lb., caught on 9-9 tackle in eight hours. Catalina Island, April 10th, 1911. (Signed) P.V. Rogers, Official Photographer to the Tuna Club.”

The day before this record catch I went out alone with a boatman, in order to get my hand in, so to speak. It was well I did so, for I discovered that tuna-fishing, like most other things in this world, wants some learning. I hooked my first fish all right, but after playing him for an hour or so I had to give up. My arms ached as though they were being wrenched from their sockets, and my hands were all blistered. Next day I wore gloves, and my boatman taught me that afternoon how to play a fish with my whole body, throwing it backwards and forwards as in rowing.

The motor-boats that are used for tuna-fishing are, I should explain, fitted with sliding seats, like our racing craft here at home, and with leather holdfasts for the feet, and this makes it much easier to play a really big fish, once one has learnt the knack of it. I had also explained to me how to use the patent reel, with which the rods used in tuna-fishing are fitted, and which only runs out at a certain pressure; not freely, as in the case of an ordinary reel.

I forgot to mention that the bait used for the yellow-finned tuna is a sardine, that for his big blue-finned cousin being invariably a flying-fish. Both these tuna are the same species of fish, be it understood, but bearing about the same relation to one another in point of size as the trout does to a salmon.

In angling for the big tuna a kite is sometimes used. This is flown over the sea, and attached to it is a line with a flying-fish (the bait) dangling at the end of it on or near the surface of the water. The motion of the kite, driven by the wind, causes the bait to bob up and down very much as does the live flying-fish, and the tuna leaps out of the sea after it just as a trout does after a fly. When the big fish swallows the baited hook he of course drags the kite down with him.

Another curious feature in connection with Santa Catalina Island is that boats built with glass bottoms are in use there. This is done to give the visitor an opportunity of studying and admiring at his leisure the wonderful sea flora that everywhere carpets the comparatively shallow ocean floor in the immediate neighbourhood of the island.

The beauty and variety of this latter must be seen to be believed. It seems almost a profanation to apply the hackneyed term of “seaweed” to these lovely forms of subaqueous tropical vegetation, although this, I suppose, is practically what they really are. Many of the species, however, are as big as small trees, and all colours are represented, from brightest tints of green to vivid crimson, that in an instant pales to lavender, quivers to gold, or slips into molten ruby or sapphire as the angle of view alters.

These wonderful undersea glades spring from a groundwork of coral no less beautifully tinted, and spread about the interstices, and strewn thick on the patches of golden sand, are the most beautiful shells imaginable. On one of my trips out I took with me a professional diver, a half-breed Mexican Indian, and he went down several times, and brought me up a very fine collection of shells, corals, and so forth. I have most of them still, and they have been greatly admired. Hiding deep down amongst the coral and seaweed, too, one catches glimpses of many weird fishes that no angler has ever succeeded in catching.

Altogether I was very pleased indeed with my experiences at lovely Santa Catalina, the tuna-fishing more particularly appealing to me greatly. As regards another form of sport that is peculiar to the island, however, I was somewhat disappointed. This was wild goat stalking, of which I had heard big things. The animals are supposed to have descended from some left there long ago by the old Spanish voyageurs, and were pictured to me as being very wild, shy, and difficult to approach.

Naturally I concluded I would like to have a shot at one or more of them, especially as I was assured that it was quite the correct thing to do; so a day was fixed, and I set off very early in the morning in quite high spirits. I was looking forward to something between a chamois hunt in the Swiss Alps and a day’s deer-stalking amongst the Highlands of Scotland. Alas, how different was the reality from the expectation! After riding on the backs of ponies along interminable mountain tracks, ascending higher and higher until we reached a region of utter sterility and barrenness, we at length came upon the goats—an entire herd of them. But they were not the least bit wild. On the contrary, they were quite disgustingly tame. They did not even attempt to run when I approached them, but stood stock-still and “baa-a-d.” I thought of Tennyson’s line about “catching the wild goat by the beard.” It would have been a quite easy feat as regards these goats.

To shoot them was, of course, quite out of the question. There was nothing for it but to retrace my footsteps to the lowlands whence I had come, which I accordingly did. My guide could not understand it. “So easy a shot!” I heard him muttering to himself. “Such beautiful horns! How splendid a trophy! What a chance thrown away!”

Los Angeles is one of the most up-to-date places imaginable, with its blaze of electric lights, its scurrying tramcars and innumerable swift automobiles. So, too, of course is San Francisco, and most of the other big Californian cities and towns; but some of the smaller mining camps up in the mountains are pretty rough. I once visited one of these which was known far and wide throughout the State as a “hard town,” being in fact a regular Mecca for gamblers and others of the light-fingered gentry.

While strolling round my attention was attracted by a leather-lunged individual who was appealing to a group of miners to the effect that he would bet he could cut the ace of spades, or any other card designated, in a pack which had been thoroughly shuffled by anyone.

The interest was at fever heat, and the miners wagered freely on the outcome. Over 100 dollars were in fact lying on the table when I addressed the gambler saying:

“I’ll take ten dollars of that if you will let me shuffle the pasteboards.” “Why, certainly, stranger,” he replied. “It’s all the same to me.”

I placed the bet and shuffled the cards.

“Now, gentlemen,” said the gambler, laying the deck upon the table, “I win if I cut the ace of spades.”

So saying, he whipped out a huge knife, and with a mighty swing he cut the cards clean through.

“Gentlemen,” he yelled as he quickly scooped up the money, “the cash is mine as I cut the ace of spades.”

“Oh, no, you haven’t,” I cried. “I have the ace of spades.”

I had palmed it while shuffling the deck.

“Say, stranger!” was the gambler’s only comment. “I reckon that the feller as said that no man cud beat another at his own game was a gol-durned fool.”

While in Los Angeles I had my first, last, and only ride upon an ostrich. This was at the Pasedena Ostrich Farm, one of the sights of the place. It was not a success, at all events, so far as I was concerned. The ostrich was hooded when I got on his back, and quite quiet. But directly the hood was removed, the huge ungainly bird ran like mad under the railings, nearly breaking my leg, and glad was I to get off him.

It was here, too, that I had my only experience of the autocratic methods of the much-talked-of American policeman. I was strolling leisurely back to my hotel late one evening from a cigar store, where I had been smoking, chatting, and throwing dice for “rounds” of cigars and cigarettes, a favourite pastime, by the way, with the Yanks, when a burly Irish policeman suddenly pounced upon me. He carried a big club and a big revolver, so I thought it best not to attempt to get away. In fact I imagined at first that he was having a game with me.

I was soon undeceived, however. “Come along!” he shouted roughly, seizing me by the collar, “I want you.”

“What for?” I asked.

“You’ll soon see,” he answered, and marched me to a telephone-box, which he unlocked with a key he carried, and asked over the wire for a patrol waggon to be sent along immediately.

Into it, as soon as it arrived, I was unceremoniously bundled, and driven to the police-station. Here I was charged with being drunk and disorderly. I tried to explain, but had hardly opened my mouth before I was roughly ordered to be silent by the Inspector on duty, and the next moment I was seized from behind and hustled into a cell.

There I remained until after daybreak the following morning. The time seemed endless, and all the while I was wondering what my wife would say, left alone in a strange hotel in a strange city. At length there was a stir outside, a rattle of keys, and an officer appeared, and what is called out there, I learnt afterwards, the “daylight court” was convened.

I stated my case volubly, and with considerable heat. The officer interrupted me.

“You’re English?” he asked.

“Yes I am,” I replied, “and I’m going to have satisfaction for this outrage. I’ll go to the British consul. I’ll——”

“Get out!” he interrupted.

“But I say I wasn’t——”

“Get out!”

“I’ve been insulted and——” “Get out!”

What could I do? I got out. When I reached my hotel I found my wife in hysterics. I comforted her as well as I could. Then I rushed off to the Los Angeles Record office and saw the editor. He only laughed.

Afterwards I saw the manager of the music-hall where I was performing. He laughed too. Then he winked slowly.

“Why didn’t you tip the cop a dollar?” he asked.

Then I understood. But, alas! the understanding came too late to be of use.