THE GAMBLING DEN


In spite of the agitation that was going on at the time in the
city against gambling, we had no trouble in being admitted to the
place in Forty-eighth Street. They seemed to recognise Warrington,
for no sooner had the lookout at the door peered through a little
grating and seen him than the light woodwork affair was opened.

To me, with even my slender knowledge of such matters, it had
seemed rather remarkable that only such a door should guard a
place that was so notorious. Once inside, however, the reason was
apparent. It didn't. On the outside there was merely such a door
as not to distinguish the house, a three-story and basement
dwelling, of old brownstone, from the others in the street.

As the outside door shut quickly, we found ourselves in a sort of
vestibule confronted by another door. Between the two the lookout
had his station.

The second door was of the "ice-box" variety, as it was popularly
called at the time, of heavy oak, studded with ax-defying bolts,
swung on delicately balanced and oiled hinges, carefully
concealed, about as impregnable as a door of steel might be.

There were, as we found later, some steel doors inside, leading to
the roof and cellar, though not so thick. The windows were
carefully guarded inside by immense steel bars. The approaches
from the back were covered with a steel network and every