The phonoscope (Nov 1896-Dec 1899)

Vol. III. No. 9 THE PHONOSCOPE 9 Gbe Mail of tbe Slot Machine There is nothing unusual about my appearance as you will admit. In fact I am quite an ordinary machine with no more complications in my insides than a fellow usually has who knocks about saloons and keeps bad hours, as I have done these three years. But still there has never been anything so serious the matter with me that the doctor could not fix it without resort to other instruments tlian his fingers and a small screw driver. You know I call the young man who comes around and takes the nickels out of me, the doctor, and he calls me his good patient, and says that I pay handsomely for attendance, except when I'm in jail. I have been acquiring modesty for three years, so I say now, what I firmly believe, that I am only a common sort of a slot machine with four compartments and a rake-off box. My exterior is yellow oak and the rest of me is hard maple. I have nickel trimmings, as is fitting and my face is covered by a piece of glass. I used to be a pretty fine piece of furniture and when I began my public career I was a great curiosity. I stood on the tiled floor near the entrance of a big saloon and was admired and played by every one, my winsome appearance causing many a nickel to be left with me. I was decently honest too at that time although I was tempted often. But lately my associations have been so bad — worse than I ever could have selected for myself, as I told a policeman only this morning— and I may have lapsed from rigid honesty, but still no man can say tliat I ever did a dishonorable act and I have always gladly given the house at least 40 per cent, of my gross receipts. Of course three years ago I was green. I was proud of the beautiful work I was doing and nothing delighted me so much as when my owner patted my polished sides and said : "He's good for $10 a day, six days in tha week and $15 on the seventh." It was all too wood to last. I know that now. My first rebuff came when I had been in commission about three months and I have never been the same since. It happened this way. Early one morning I noticed a man with a hooked nose and a big mustache come into the saloon. The bartender with the yellow hair was polishing up the glassware and getting ready to mix matutinal cocktails. The man with the hooked nose looked slyly around, smiled and winked. He turned a glass of bitters into himself, where I have no doubt they found similar society to themselves. Then he winked knowingly at the bartender, jerked his thumb over his shoulder toward me, pointed straight down with his other hand and went out. The bartender stood for a moment lost in thought. Then he called the porter and together they seized me and carried me down stairs. I was scraped some, but they hustled me along and placed me in the darkest corner of the cellar. They threw a piece of burlap over me, piled a lot of empty wine boxes around and went away, leaving me disheartened and disconsolate. But I kept mum, feeling sure there was need of silence and I proposed to be faithful to my owner. At the end of a week I was feeling mighty lonesome and pretty sick. It was damp down there and the moth and rust were corrupting. My joints were soon affected and I knew I'd need a pretty thorough course of treatment if I wasn't taken out soon. Just when I was feeling the worst about it all and wondering if my owner had gone back on me completely, I happened to look toward the partition that separated the room where I was from the back one where the stairs were. The door opened and the colored porter came in with a lantern in his hand. He stuml led forward, groping about until his hand clutched the burlaps that covered me all but one crack, through which I could see. He yanked the covering off and looked me over carefully, holding the lantern at arm's length. Then he placed the lantern on the damp floor, drew three nickels from his pocket, and came nearer. "Yellow wins suah after midnight," he said, as he dropped a nickel into me and pulled the lever down. I didn't feel much like moving on account of the rust, but I did finally, and I disproved that statement about yellow being a sure thing after midnight. The other nickels were dropped into me and I felt better. Then I saw that he had no intention of losing his three nickels. He produced a screwdriver, turned my face to the wall and attempted to get at my cash compartments. "Thief," I muttered, as he jarred me and the wheel in my head whirred. "What's that?" he exclaimed, drawing back. "I thought I heard some one speak." But lie did not give up. He pried with the screwdriver until I thought my back would break. It would, too, if I hadn't resorted to strategy. He gave me another jolt and my wheel started again. He at once turned my face out and waited. I stt pped on yellow and forty nickels dropped in a shower in the cup. With eager hands he drew them out. He counted them carefully and put them in his pocket. Then, being colored, he thought better of it. He gave me a vigorous shake and the nickels in my other compartments rattled. He got a box, placed it in front of me, sat down and began to play. He had forgotten all about his screw-driver. Well, it was relaxation for me and he showed he was a sport. He said to himself it was one against one, but gracious! he didn't know. He had no chance. In about two hours I had those nickels all back aud when he left I could see that it was daylight in the back cellar. I had a good round and I felt easy and comfortable inside again. The next night he came back and I got six nickels from him. The next night I got nine more and in three weeks he won only twice and I let him do it ; once he carried away three dollars because he said he needed the money, and another time I let him have a dollar and a half because he seemed to be discouraged and I feared the screw-driver. I think it was on the twenty-first night that the end came. He appeared as usual about midnight and I saw at once that something was wrong. He had but three nickels and I thought I'd make sbort work of him. Before he began .to play he sat down, drew a bottle of whiskey from under his coat and took a long pull at it. Now, while I've knocked around saloons for three years, I have never got so hardened I could stand for that. I'm a good gambler, and that's bad enough, but I don't drink and no good gambler does. Well, he placed the bottle on the box and staggered toward me. I was completely disgusted. This colored man had been good to me and I had intended to give him all his money back, but, as I said, I couldn't stand for his lushing, so I swallowed his first nickel and kept quiet. "Dog gone 'f I believe that old wheel moved at all," he said, as he gave me a hearty slap. I maintained my composure and swallowed his other nickels. "I doan' believe," he began, and gave me a kick to finish the sentence. I trembled with rage and pain and resolved to get even. He took another drink and hurried up stairs. He came back soon with a handful of nickels. "Aha," I said. "The bartender left the till open." I swallowed his nickels in less than fifteen minutes and never gave him a cent back, knowing he had stolen them. He went up-stairs again after he had taken another drink and when he returned he was carrying the cash register. Now, I always did hate cash registers. They're so stuck on themselves because they can add figures, but there isn't one of them that can tell a lead slug from a nickel, so I never could see where their aristocracy came in. I was pretty glad when he took that register and pried it open with the screw-driver. There wasn't much money in it, but he cleaned it out, putting some quarters and halves in his pocket and laying the nickels on the box besides the whiskey bottle. He seemed pretty shaky when he had done this and took another drink to brace himself up. He fed me the nickels and I took care that he did not win. Then he went at the bottle again and finished it. I could see daylight through the door which he had left open. I wondered what he was going to do when I saw his head drop forward and he went to sleep with the bottle clutched up to his breast and the rifled cash register and the tell-tale screw-driver beside him. Half an hour later I heard a step up-stairs. Then there was a hastening and bustling. A step on the stairs followed and pretty soon I saw the face of the blond bartender in the door and a big policeman was peering over his shoulder. They came forward and struck a match. The story was plainly told by what they saw. I heard the rumble of a wagon and the clang of a bell above and another policeman came and helped the first to carry the limp Simon away. An hour later the detectives came. My owner brought them down stairs and I tell you I was glad to see him. "He'll know where I am now," I said to myself "and he'll get me out of this." "Who runs that slot machine," asked one of the detectives with a knowing leer. "I don't know," answered the proprietor. I could hardly believe my ears. I know I blushed. It took me months and months to get over that shock and I have been a different machine ever since— an outcast, without family, friends or connections. I had been disowned, cast off and driven from home. It was something that I thought about as the detectives loaded me into the wagon and took me away. A. D. W. A film for picture machines which is acknowledged by exhibitors to be the funniest of all moving magic films is termed "A Visit to the Spiritualist." A countryman is seen entering the office of the Spiritualist and paying his fee. He is then mesmerized and sees funny things. He drops his handkerchief on the floor and as he reaches for it, it gradually grows larger and larger, dancing up and down and going through funny antics until before the eyes of the spectator it turns to a ghost of enormous proportions. It then vanishes and as the countryman is in the act of sitting in a chair the ghost suddenly appears and the 'countryman receives a great fright. He then jumps up, throws off his hat and coat and they immediately fly back on his body. He repeatedly throws them off and they as often return. The scene closes by numerous ghosts and hob goblins appearing and disappearing before the eyes of the frightened countryman who finally leaves the room in great haste. The court having adjoined until after January 1, 1900, no decision has yet been rendered in the suit of the American Graphophone Company, vs., Leon Douglas, et al.