WE reached Albany at five o’clock, and I stepped ashore and walked carelessly up the street, trying to look as though I had been there before. I don’t think I succeeded. It is the most difficult thing in the world to step off a boat or train in a strange city, and not fancy that at least half the assembled spectators are looking at you and saying:

“There’s a fellow who never was here before: that’s clear.”

I went up to an hotel, gave my check to the porter and told him to bring my baggage from the boat. I have hitherto forborne to give the names of hotels, because it might look like surreptitious advertising; and John Smith is above that sort of thing. But, it might be urged, why not mention the names of the good hotels, that travelers who read this work may know where to stay when they visit such cities as I mention? One reason is, this is no traveler’s guide; and another is, that an hotel that was comfortable and well-conducted two or three years ago, may have changed proprietors, and become quite the reverse by this time. I have seen this demonstrated myself, as I may have occasion to mention in the course of this work.

I remained at Albany a week, during which time I visited the penitentiary—only as a visitor, remember—and other places of interest. I also visited Troy, six miles above, on the east side of the river, and some of its manufactories. At a nail and horseshoe factory there I saw the largest wheel in this country. It is a monstrous water-wheel, which runs the machinery of the whole establishment. I was told that its diameter was seventy-four feet. It was in operation while I was there; it revolved rather slowly, and looked like the world turning around on a cloudy day. At Troy I also saw a Trojan horse; though not the one Homer tells about.

Before going westward, I paid a visit to Saratoga Springs, the great fashionable summer resort, which is about thirty miles from Albany. Do not infer that I went there to spend the fashionable “season.” I am above such a place as that. So is any one that hasn’t too much money. It is there that glittering wealth and giddy fashion congregate during the hot weather, and that merchants from New York and other cities go to gamble away in a week—sometimes in a single night—all they have made in a year.

“Faro” prevails there to an alarming extent. So do poker, roulette, billiards, nine-pins and horse-racing. I stood by a faro-table for an hour, and the amount of cash I saw change hands in that time was something frightful. Thousands seemed but a trifle at that board. I saw one gentleman looking on with idle interest, while others were betting, losing and winning, and I said to myself, “That fellow is going to try his luck: I can tell by the way he looks.”

And he did try it.

“I’ll put that V on the ace,” said he, laying down a five-dollar greenback.

It lost.

“Pshaw!” said he; to which nobody paid any attention.

The betting went on. Presently my man tried it again.

“Here’s an X on the ace.”

And he put an X on the ace.

It lost.

“Confound it!” he exclaimed, vexatiously. “Here’s twenty-five for the deuce.”

He put two Xs and a V on the deuce.

The ace won this time, and the deuce lost. And he lost. He was now forty dollars “out.”

“Give me some checks,” he said, handing a hundred-dollar bill to the banker. He was evidently going into it more extensively.

The banker quietly took his hundred dollars, and counted him out some ivory checks used to represent cash in the game.

The betting went on. He laid down five dollars’ worth of checks on the ace and won. He laid down another five and lost. He laid twenty on and lost. He laid twenty more on and lost.

“Confound that unlucky ace!” said he, “I will not try it again.”

So, he tried betting on two others at once. He laid five on the seven, and thirty on the eight. The seven won and the eight lost. He won five dollars and lost thirty.

“Blast the luck!” said he. “Here are the rest of the checks on the ace. I’ll try my luck on it again.” And he placed the remainder of his hundred dollars’ worth of checks on the ace.

And lost.

He then abruptly mentioned the vulgar name of a place that is also called Hades and Erebus, and wished ugly wishes on himself if he’d bet any more. But he soon thought he would like to try it again—just once. He resolved to risk one bet of a hundred dollars, and if that should lose, he wouldn’t try it again.

“Let me see,” said he, “I’ll put it on the ace. No, I won’t. The ace is unlucky for me. I’ll put it on the seven; that won for me once.”

He put it on the seven and lost. If he had put it on the ace that time he would have won.

He then used profane language, and spoke very disrespectfully of the cards in general, and of the seven-spot in particular. Then he left the room.

Presently he returned with a roll of bills in his hand—a thousand-dollar one being placed conspicuously on the outside, as a kind of index, to show what was within. He handed a thousand-dollar bill to the banker, and said:

“Change that.”

The banker changed it.

He then laid down five hundred dollars on the ace and lost. He laid five hundred more on it and lost. He took another thousand-dollar bill from the roll, laid it down, and lost. He laid down another, and won.

“Good luck, at last,” said he. “I believe that ace will win again. It will be sure to: it has won so little of late.” So he put three thousand dollars on it. Others followed his example, and two thousand dollars more were laid on the ace. All who sat at the table now, or stood by, looked for the issue with much interest.

It lost.

This most unfortunate of the gamblers made a slight movement of the hand, as though to place his remaining cash in his pocket and quit; but he hesitated a moment, then placed the whole “pile” on the ace.

“There,” said he, “are seven thousand dollars.”

Yes, seven thousand.

The ace lost that time.

The unfortunate man, who had now lost about ten thousand dollars, articulated a number of bad words, and, turning away, left the room with as sad-looking a face as I ever saw under a hat. No one paid any attention to him. The game went on, and he was soon forgotten.

Of course, others were betting, winning and losing all this time, for there were a score around the table, and it would be no exaggeration to say that at least a hundred thousand dollars changed hands while I was standing there. I have merely mentioned this one gentleman in particular, because his case was, perhaps, the saddest of any that came under my notice, and made the greatest impression on my mind. Whether he returned with any more cash, or whether he could raise any more, I do not know, as I soon after left the room and returned to Albany; but, if he was able to raise any more “spondoolix,” there is little doubt that he tried it again that evening, for the more bitter lessons of this kind a man learns, the more they don’t do him any good. “I will try it again till I at least win back what I have lost,” is his plea. If he has been fortunate, and won, he will say “I seem to be pretty lucky; it’s worth trying again.” He does and often finds it is worth trying again—to the banker. Win or lose, a gambler will be a gambler.