[Dan De Quille, Tongue-Oil Timothy Dead, the New York Sun, December 5, 1886]

 

THE SUN, SUNDAY, DECEMBER 5, 1886 – SIXTEEN PAGES.                         9

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TONGUE-OIL TIMOTHY DEAD.

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INTERESTING INCIDENTS IN THE CAREER OF A WESTERN GAMBLER.

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The Professional Career of a Man of Genius—How He Soothed a Gang of Southern Gamblers—His Swindle of Wasatch Sam.

            Virginia City, Nev., Nov. 20.—A letter received months ago from a friend at Butte, Montana, informs me of the death in that place of "Tongue-Oil Timothy," a former Nevadan, and in his sphere a great and a good man. My friend says:

            He died in bed, with his boots off, passing away peacefully with the sweet month of June.

            The departed was a man of genius in his walk and way of life. His like "we ne'er shall see again." It being the rule to give no word of encouragement to a man of genius during his lifetime, I feel at liberty—now that Tongue-Oil Timothy can in no way be benefited by what I shall say of him—to drop at least one leaf of "Daphne's deathless plant" upon his tomb.

            In oily smoothness of discourse and plausibility of manner he was a man without compare. Virulent polemics were by him detested. His occupation, that of a dealer of the noble game of faro, was one that furnished him endless opportunity for the exercise of his peculiar talent of tongue. He was so smooth and oily in all his walks in life that it is hard to find anywhere in his career a protruding point on which to lay hold. He seems at the first glance a promising subject, but, like the Irishman's flea, when we put our finger on him he is not there.

TONGUE-OIL TIMOTHY SOOTHES A DEN OF LIONS

            Tongue-Oil Timothy generally dealt his own game, moving from town to town as the grass grew short. I shall give a brief account of Timothy's professional visit to Sulphuropolis, a well-known Nevada town, which would smell the same by any other name.

            Timothy had heard much of this town as being one in which shekels abounded; but he had also heard from the few of his fellow craftsmen who had lived to leave the place that its inhabitants were not such as yielded tamely to the hand of the spoiler. It was the great stronghold in the State of men born south of Mason and Dixon's celebrated line.

            As the gentle dove goes cooing into the strange dovecote, so Tongue-Oil Timothy entered the town of Sulphuropolis. Unostentatiously he secured a large room in the rear of the barroom of the principal hotel, and smilingly he spread forth his net.

            The people came—for it had been long since the beast of the jungle had ventured to show himself in the town—the people came, they saw, and were conquered. Smilingly Timothy raked their shekels into his drawer. With oily tongue, and in a saddened and sympathetic tone, he deprecated their losses, and almost tore his hair when one that he was cheering on and in whom he seemed to feel an almost fatherly interest was a continual loser.

            The majority of those gathered about the lair of Timothy's pet Bengal were fiery sons of the chivalrous South; men of the half-horse, half-alligator strain. To guide his bark and ride serene in the midst of this turbulent element taxed the peculiar genius of Timothy to the utmost, yet he was equal to the situation. As they saw their golden pieces depart and their piles of silver melt away, not unfrequently was there heard among those surrounding Tongue-Oil Timothy's hoard the sound of grinding teeth. Sighs that shook strong frames forced their way from brazen breasts, and often great hairy hands, twitching nervously, went back and toyed with the buckhorn of a bowie, or rested upon the ivory hilt of Colt's incomparable invention.

            At such times—times that try men's souls—Timothy shone forth in almost God-like greatness. He saw nothing. A serene smile of peace and good-will toward all mankind played upon his lips, and his eyes, soft in their gaze as a maiden's, glanced from face to face as in mellow tones he discoursed of other scenes in other lands. Not a thought gave he to the board or the piles of gold before him. His heart was not in them, but absent and roaming in the sunny South, where he thought it well to locate the home of his childhood. Amazed and dumfounded at beholding this exhibition of child-like innocence and serenity, the wretched and ruined men would stand and impatiently gaze into one another's faces, the long, knotted fingers would slowly relax their grasp upon the hilts of gleaming weapons, and a perfect calm would ensue. The troubled waters acknowledged the soothing oil.

            Thus time—a whole month—passed on, and there, in the day and in the dead vast middle of the night, sat Tongue-Oil Timothy, smiling, cooing, and raking in the spoils of the toiling sons of Sulphuropolis. At last he had gathered in the last slick quarter. The town was cleaned; the grass mown to the very roots. Timothy had packed his apparatus, and was prepared to set out in search of fresh fields and pastures new. On the eve of his departure he was far from being easy in mind. It had been wafted to his ears that before he left he was to be made to smell something savoring more strongly of the infernal regions than did the furnace fumes of Sulphuropolis.

            The stage which was to bear him away, and with him his heavy sacks of coin, was soon to drive around to the front of the hotel. Many—alas! all too many—of his old customers thronged the barroom, and war was in their eyes. Timothy made them a little speech. He spoke of the terrible stories he had heard against them previous to his coming among them, and wound up by declaring he was happy to be able to say that he was now convinced that these were all malicious lies; that more pleasant or agreeable gentlemen it had never been his good fortune to meet with than those whose acquaintance he had had the pleasure of making in the enterprising little town of Sulphuropolis. The stage driving up at the moment, Timothy with his gripsack in his hand, was anxious to be off, for his speech seemed to have fallen upon hearts of stone. Throwing a twenty-dollar gold piece upon the counter, he told the landlord to treat all hands. A dogged and ominous silence prevailed. Not a man moved toward the bar where he had thrown his gold piece, with the same design as that with which the Russian unfreights his sledge when pursued by wolves.

            As Timothy made his way toward the stage the men of Sulphuropolis began to throng about him. He smiled in various directions, nodded, and spoke pleasant words; but no word was spoken in return, and no answering smile met his gaze. Glad was Tongue-Oil Timothy when he was safely ensconced within the coach, for he liked not the fierce and sullen look of those who escorted him or of the many others who came crowding up, but he made it appear in face and manner that he understood all to be filled with grief at parting with him. Just as the whip of the driver cracked and the unwilling horses began to feel their way into their collars, Timothy heard a gruff voice say in anger-thickened tones:

            "Just thar what he said `More pleasant and agreeable gentlemen he had never met' is whar you ought'r struck him!"

            Timothy felt in his inmost soul that he had made a narrow escape. But, true to his nature, as the coach rolled away from the gloomy group of coinless men, he bent forward from its window and with his lily hand waved them from his benevolent countenance a smiling farewell—for he was still within reach of a pistol bullet, and the words, "Just thar is whar you ought'r struck him," were still humming in his ears.

TIMOTHY SHEARS A SHEEP OF HIS OWN COLOR

            On one occasion Timothy of the oily tongue made his appearance in the brisk little town of Smelterville, famous for its many furnaces and the richness of its argentiferous ores. He walked about the town in an apparently gloomy and dejected manner, yet was he happy as he was unctuous to the core; and, even as he seemed to sorrow, the oil of gladness was oozing from his every pore. In the town was only one room in which, suitably and to the full, could be displayed the attractions of the royal beast of Bengal. This room was occupied by a brother sport, who was driving quite a thriving trade. To obtain possession of this room was the secret desire of Timothy's soul; but there was "Wasatch Sam" in full and flourishing possession. Haman looked not on Mordecai sitting in the king's gate with more envious eye than did Timothy observe Wasatch Sam, seated, behind his green baize, offering forth his layout.

            At the first opportunity Timothy, in tones all greasy with grief, informed Wasatch that he was dead broke. He was even then, as he said, on his way to the Comstock to raise a sum with which to start afresh in the world. It was hard, he said, for a man like him, who had always rejoiced in the possession of almost unnumbered shekels, to be reduced to this extremity; but to this complexion must sometimes come those who tempt Dame Fortune too far. He then descended to particulars, and informed the sympathetic Sam—for so Sam strove to appear—that he had been in the town of Chloridetta, where he had spread forth his lure. The town was full of pigeons ripe for the plucking. Coin abounded in every man's pocket, and was rattling in every man's hand. There seemed spread abroad and ready for the sickle of the reaper a harvest of not less than $30,000 or $40,000. But, alas! the run of the cards was villainously against him. No expedient served to give him a turn of luck. Fortune favored alone those who fought against him, and at last his bank was broken, his last dime gone, and his fangless tiger grinned ghastfully through naked gums.

            As Timothy concluded the story of his woes tears stood in his angel eyes. He heaved a heart-broken sigh, affectionately wrung his dear friend Sam's soft hand, and rushed away to his room to hide a smile of exultation. It was late—was somewhat beyond that "witching time of night when churchyards yawn"—and Sam's game had closed. Gazing in the direction taken by the departing Timothy for some seconds, Wasatch began assiduously to pace the floor of his place of traffic, meanwhile vigorously puffing a fragrant Havana. The mind of the man was busy.

            "The saffron morn," as Homer hath it, had long passed, and the sun rode high in the heavens, when Timothy made his appearance the following day. A sort of premonitory symptom of a smile for a moment fluttered upon his full, ripe under lip, as a flaw of wind is sometimes seen to ripple the placid surface of a lake, when it was told him that, through some sudden and unaccountable freak, Wasatch Sam had given up the room in which he was wont to exhibit his small but energetic menagerie and departed, bag and baggage, by the early coach for some place to friends and foes alike unknown. This bit of news was imparted to Timothy as he imbibed his morning cocktail at the bar of the saloon, in the rear of which was situated the coveted faro room.

            The man who furnished this intelligence was proprietor of the place. After about three flourishes of Timothy's oily tongue the landlord deposited in his till a month's rent in advance, and our gentle hero, with hands in trousers pockets, leisurely viewed his newly acquired quarters and estimated the capabilities thereof.

            Now turn we to Wasatch Sam. Arrived in the town of Chloridetta, his first care was to secure a spacious room suited to his purpose, making sure of it by planking down the rent for a month in advance. Until he had done this he said not a word of his business or his intentions to a living soul. All being made sure, however, he presently strolled forth to view the bleating herds of the place, form estimates of the weight of the fleeces, and begin in anticipation the pleasing task of the shearing. Sam had none of the faults of "the weak, the vain, the vacillating good." He meant business, and he was in a hurry to set about it. He had not sauntered far along the principal street of the town before he met a brother sport.

            "Hello!" cried this cheerful member of the confraternity. "Hello, Sam! what brings you here? Thought you had a good, easy-going game down at Smelterville? I had about made up my mind to go down there myself."

            "Nonsense! Don't think of it!" cried Sam. "Don't think of it! for from what I hear it is ten times better picking up here. I just landed this morning, and I've got me a room already, and am going to open my game tonight."

            "The bloody blazes you are!" cried the cheerful sport. "What to, I should like to know? There's not a `splitter' left in the town. Tongue-Oil Timothy left here only four days ago, and he carried away with him the last slick quarter in the place!"

            "That oily-tongued devil!" yelled Sam, "the infernal, tear-shedding crocodile! the heart-broken, sobbing, thieving liar! Why, he told me he got broke here; that the town was jingling and lousy with money, and that he could have won $50,000 if luck had not turned against him. He shed tears by the gallon! The groaning, lying, smooth-faced scoundrel! just see what he has made me do! Town tee-totally cleaned out, hey?"

            "Cleaned and scraped—the last battered old dime gone, I tell you! Look at all the `huskies' going round here with the corners of their mouths drawn down and their backs humped," said the cheerful man in his most gleeful manner. "Look at 'em! Not one of 'em has had a square meal since Tim Tongue-Oil left town. By the great bull of Bashan and everything else that roars and rumbles, even my belly is beginning to believe my throat is cut, so long has it been since any communication between the two has taken place. There is not money enough in the town to buy a flea a pair of boxing gloves."

            "D— Tim Tongue-Oil!" cried Sam. "Good day, old pard: I've business on my hands. May the devil scorch that blubbering, hypocritical beast!" growled Sam as he strode away to hunt up the man of whom he had so eagerly rented his room in the morning. After a hard battle he succeeded in getting back $25 of the $50 he had a few hours before paid into the landlord's hands.

            As he busied himself with packing his traps blood was in his eye. He was bound to be off that night by return coach, in order to settle down in his old place at Smelterville, for it was much too good to lose.

            "I can't understand what put it into the head of that d— Tim to tell me such a pack of lies," muttered he as he finished his packing.

            We again breathe the stuffy atmosphere of Smelterville. How serene and smiling sits Timothy behind the baize! He is a reminder of the priest of whom old Chaucer said:

                        Full sweetly heard he confession,

                        And pleasant was his absolution.

            To lose to such a man was a greater pleasure than to win from the average of mankind. Tongue-Oil Timothy had an immense game going—better than had been seen in the town for months, for all desired to try their luck at the new bank. He was raking in coin right royally. Just when all was going on most swimmingly Wasatch Sam arrived in the town. Without waiting to look after his baggage—at least nothing more than his bags of coin—he rushed from the coach, and in a moment was confronting his old landlord.

            "The room," he cried, "the room! I'll take the room again at the same rent. Here is your money for the first month."

            "I don't understand you," said the landlord. "What about a room?"

            "The room I had—the faro room. I'll take it again! I've just got back, and I want the room again—to keep it right along same as before!"

            "O, ah, ahem! Well, yes; but you see you went away, and as Tongue-Oil Tim said that rather than see it a-lyin' idle—and as he allers felt like helpin' of a man when he came in his way, he'd try of he could manage ter keep it a goin' on as a sorter help ter the bar, why I—"

            "You rented it to him?" yelled Sam.

            "Well, yes; he put up fur it fur the first month in advance, with the refusal for as long as he wants it."

            "D— Tongue-Oil Tim! he beats me at every turn. Tongue-Oil here, Tongue-Oil there, Tongue-Oil everywhere, and 'tongue-oil' wins! May old Baalzebub get Tongue-Oil!"

            So, venting his wrath, Sam strode away and took a look into the faro room where the tiger was rending its prey right and left. The evidences of prosperity that he there saw made him sick at heart. He went back to the bar and took half a tumbler of raw tarantula, sat down and mused for a time, then went and called Timothy, requesting that gentleman to come out for discourse.

            Timothy called upon the man in the lookout chair to take his seat and deal, winked a friend into the lookout chair, and then, serene as a summer's morn, went forth to meet and affectionately greet his dear and ever sympathetic friend, Wasatch Sam. Most eagerly did he advance and cordially grasp Sam's half-extended hand. It was like David going for Jonathan after a six weeks' absence.

            "Why, my dear friend!" cried he, "just to see how strangely things sometimes turn out. A man makes an enemy in jealously striving to prove the heart of his most loved and valued friend. Now here, you see that I had a dream in which I saw myself overtaken by the very misfortune that I related to you. I saw all who played at my game winning my gold, till at last all was gone and I was left penniless—was almost kicked out of the town. All my acquaintances shunned me. You—even you, dear old friend—turned from me. I awoke bathed in tears. The dream made a deep impression on my mind. I said to myself:

            'What if it were so—really and truly so—what should I do?' Then I very foolishly resolved that I would test the sincerity of those calling themselves my friends by telling them my dream as a fact. To you, Sam—you being my dearest and most valued friend on earth—I first related as a fact what was really only an idle dream. Forgive me my cruelty, my dear boy! for as I poured into your sympathetic ear the story of my losses and my despair, I saw that your very soul was wrung—that your heart of hearts was bleeding for me! Yet I had the cruelty to rush away and leave you pained and sick at heart for your friend. No sooner was I composed in my bed, and had taken the second thought, than my heart wept for the anguish I had so jealously and foolishly caused you. More than once I was on the point of rising and rushing away to find you to tell you that it was I, Samson, who had spoiled the Philistines, and not the Philistines Samson!

            "Long I lingered in my room the next morning, startled, confused, and blushing at every step that sounded on the stairs, for, said I: 'There, now, comes Sam to offer—nay, to force upon me—half of his wealth. What a sorry figure I shall cut in trying to give a sane reason for having kept him a whole night stretched upon the rack! How pitiful and small will look my joke when I tell him it was all a dream!'

            "Thus I tortured myself until I could no longer endure my own society. I then sallied forth, and great was my astonishment at learning of your sudden departure. At one time I meditated putting a pistol to my head, for I thought that grief at the woes of a friend might have turned your brain; or, again, that you had gone to a distant place, there to dispose of some possessions in order to assist me—me who needed no assistance.

            "To make a long story short, I then, to assist this poor man and to make him some amends for having deprived him of a paying tenant, rented of him his empty room. Thus, my dear friend, you see, from a mere idle dream came about all these perplexing complications. But let them not impair that friendship which has for so long reached out from heart to heart and grappled us together as it were with hooks of steel. With my arms about your neck, like a repentant bad child, I now have only to rest my head upon your shoulder and sob my prayers for forgiveness, bitterly repenting my—"

            "Tongue-Oil!" cried Sam, aghast, as he beheld that weeping and subjugated individual advancing upon him—"Tongue-Oil, keep away from me, or so help me God, I'll give you a mash in the jaw! You played your game well. You caught my jack, and much good may it do you; but if you ever deal me such a hand again and get away with the trick, I hope that I may never again hold deuce high till Gabriel toots his old dinner horn!"

            The ever-serene Timothy remained master of the situation, and long sat in Sam's warm nest behind the baize, smiling whole handfuls of gold into his capacious drawers. For this was "Tongue-Oil Timothy."

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            My Montana friend says of the good Timothy's last days:

            Serenely as a babe he passed in his chips, assuring all those about him that death had no terrors for him, as during his whole life peace and good will to all mankind had ever been uppermost in his thoughts and had influenced all his actions. When asked if he would like to see a minister before taking his departure, he said: "Yes. Bring all who will come, regardless of denomination. I may be able to do them some good. I am not one to hide my light under a bushel. I shall be pleased to see the ministers and to converse with them of that better world to which I am going; also to counsel them to persevere in good works, that finally they may receive their reward and take up their abode with me in the realms above, among the innocent and just."

DAN DE QUILLE.