will tell you how and where to enroll.”
That minister must have been psychic. He must have realized that my heart had not been given over to God, but that I was seeking a career to further my own ends. However, he gave me a list of books to read.
First was the Bible. I read through it, then the other volumes he had recommended. I supplemented these with books of my own choice. I studied the lives of Moses, Buddha, and Mohammed. I secured a copy of the Catholic Encyclopedia and read that.
The net result was that I lost all desire to become a pulpiteer. There were so many inconsistencies I could not reconcile that I became an iconoclast. I arrived at these conclusions: Man has all the bestiality of the animal, but is cloaked with a thin veneer of civilization; he is inherently dishonest and selfish; the honest man is a rare specimen indeed.
However, my reading firmly convinced me of the power of words. I felt that its proper use could lead me to fortune. In that I was to be right. The use of words led me to many fortunes.
When I told Jessie that I had decided that I was not cut out to be a preacher she accepted my judgment. She continued, however, as organist at the Sacramento Church and retained her faith. Though I became an iconoclast, I attended the services because of my great love for her. And I still have a high regard for that minister and his power with words.
In those days, the police were not like our police of today. The force was not so large, and the Detective Bureau had not yet been organized. The Municipal Court was not a big organization. Most of the courts were operated by justices of the peace. We called them “Justice Shops.” Each justice had his own constables, who were the detectives of that period.
There was practically no restriction on either gambling or vice. A man could earn money by his wits without any interference from the constables or the police. There was none of this pickup business, where a man is locked up and held indefinitely in a cell without a charge being placed against him.
Both civil and criminal cases were tried in the Justice Shops. I knew one of the magistrates quite well - Judge Aldo. He used to send me out to select jurors. Juries were composed of six men. When I was assigned to get a jury, I was, first of all, told which way the case was to be decided.
Naturally I went into the saloons. I’d tap a man on the shoulder and say: “How would you like to make a couple of easy dollars?”
If he was interested, I explained to him that he would have to vote right - to earn his money. In this way, I picked up half-a-dozen men, led them into Judge Aldo’s court, and saw them sworn in as jurors. The trial of course, was a farce - the verdict had been decided before the jury had even been assembled.
I picked up money in various ways, hanging around the saloons and hotels - always by persuasive words, playing upon the gullibility of some sucker who was anxious to make easy money at someone else’s expense.
But most of my time was spent at the race tracks. There was no pari-mutuel system then. Bets were accepted by bookmakers and betting commissioners who determined their own odds. I pretended to be in the confidence of owners of race horses and sold inside tips to other bettors.
I made no bets myself, because I soon learned that there is no such thing as smart money at a racecourse. I yearned to be an owner of race horses myself, but the time for that was not yet.
I had sold the plug I had acquired from the farmer, but I kept the sulky. I heard of a socially prominent young woman who owned two horses. But they were so high-spirited that she couldn’t control them. I contacted her and bought them for a ridiculously low price. They were named Nicotine and Mutineer.
At this time, sulky racing was still popular. I used to race one or the other of my horses hitched to my sulky, at Billy Gilliam’s racecourse at 35th and Grand Boulevard. When I could afford it, I bought a buggy and used Nicotine and Mutineer as carriage horses.
Driving up Michigan Avenue in my buggy, with these two blooded horses prancing and champing at the bit, I often attracted attention. One day a well-dressed, elderly man hailed me. I stopped.
“Young man,” he said, “is that rig for sale?”
“I hadn’t thought about it,” I replied, “but I’ll sell it for the right price.”
“How much do you want?”
“A thousand dollars,” I declared, after some thought.
“I’ll give you five hundred.”
“No,” I said. “A thousand is my price.”
“Well,” he grumbled, “if you change your mind come to see me at my office. I’m Mr. Loomis, you know.”
“Yes, sir, I know,” I replied.
Mr. Loomis was the head of a large wholesale grocery firm which was then, and still is, one of the leaders in the Middle West. His proposal inspired me with an idea for a new confidence game. This one was to be an excellent money-maker - and within the law.
Two days later, I called at his office.
“Have you decided to accept my proposition?” he asked eagerly.
“No, I haven’t, Mr. Loomis. But I have come to make you a counterproposal. I want you to lend me $5,000.”
“What!” he exclaimed, when he had recovered from my effrontery. “That’s a lot of money, young man. Do you have any collateral?”
“All I have is my rig,” I replied. “But if you will make me the loan, I will put up the rig as collateral and at the same time tell you how you can make a lot of money.”
“I suppose I ought to throw you out,” frowned Mr. Loomis, “but you interest me. In the first place, I’d like to have that rig. Now what is your proposal?”
“Are we alone?” I asked, looking around his office. “This must be strictly confidential.”
“No one can hear.” To make doubly sure, he got up and closed the door. “Now, what is it?”
“You know of the big handicap race at Hawthorne three weeks from now?”
“Of course.”
“I am going to tell you how to make a lot of money. I happen to know the race is fixed. The man who weighs in the horses is a friend of mine. The winning horse will carry no weight. I also know the judge. In case my horse fails to win, he will declare it no contest. In other words, Mr. Loomis, you can’t lose.”
“And your proposition?”
“Lend me $5,000. When the race is over, I’ll not only pay you back out of my winnings, but I’ll make you a present of my rig. Just to show my good faith, though, I’ll pledge my two fine horses and buggy. If, by some mischance, our horse should fail to win, then you’ll have my rig.”
Mr. Loomis required only a few minutes to think this over. He wrote me a check for $5,000. I gave him a mortgage on my outfit. Then I told him the name of the horse - Mobina.
Actually, Mobina was a selling plater and hadn’t won a race in months. There was so little chance that Mobina would win now that he was listed at 10 to 1.
Of course,
