Curiosity Read Free Page A

improved—which I had no doubt they would. As I told you, I had a sunny disposition.
    The Chess Club gathered at a coffeehouse in the Earle and Sully Exhibition Gallery, which was on Chestnut Street. With my twelve-year-old’s sense of humor, I thought it hilarious that a group of chess nuts should meet on Chestnut Street. It was only fifteen minutes’ walk from Sassafras Alley, where the boardinghouse lay, but for my short legs and milk toast constitution that was quite a hike. Still, I would have managed it well enough if I hadn’t encountered the two young rowdies.
    They were no older than I, but considerably larger, and so dirty and so ragged that I was sorry for them. At the same time, I felt somehow akin to them; if my situation did not improve, in six months I might be every bit as dirty and ragged.
    They clearly had no feelings of kinship toward me. At first it seemed they might be content just to poke fun at my skinny frame and hunched back. But then they noticed the package under my arm, which I had wrapped in brown paper.
    One of them seized it and, when I refused to let go, he punched me in the face, hard. I toppled over like a checkmated king. As I lay there amid the refuse and garbage, the other boy, laughing, kicked me in the ribs; fortunately for me, he was barefoot. It was fortunate, too, that my feet were so small, or he would surely have had my boots. The two of them hurried off with their prize; they hadn’t even looked to see what it was.
    The boy who had kicked me was limping—not from the kick, of course. Even in my dazed state, I noticed that his other foot was black and swollen, probably with gangrene. I feared he would not have long to enjoy his ill-gotten gains.
    I was left with nothing to sell now but the clothes on my back. If I said I sat there in the dirt and cried my eyes out, it probably wouldn’t surprise you. But for all my frailties, I was not a weepy sort. Though I wasn’t accustomed to being beaten up and robbed, I was accustomed to pain and to bearing it as best I could, without feeling sorry for myself.
    I got gingerly to my feet, knocked off the worst of the dirt, and went on. Why I still headed for the Chess Club, and not back to my cheerless room or to the prison, to tell my sad tale to my father, I’m not sure. Perhaps it was because I didn’t want to burden him. Perhaps it was because I was so stubborn. One thing I do know: I had learned from playing chess that, if your strategy fails, you don’t concede the game; you come up with a new strategy.
    During my visits to the Chess Club, I had seen men play for money. Each player put up a stake, and the winner took the lot. I had no money to put up; I didn’t even have a chessboard. But there were plenty of wealthy businessmen who fancied themselves crack players and who might find it amusing to be pitted against an undersized twelve-year-old.
    Many of the regulars at the Club had seen me play, of course, and when I stood in the center of the coffeehouse and called out, in my piping voice, “Who’ll wager fifty cents that he can beat me?” they glanced knowingly at one another. But there were several newcomers at the tables, playing or just drinking coffee and observing. A portly, red-faced man called out, “I’ll be glad to beat you, my lad; just let me go find a stick.”
    A slim, well-dressed fellow with a French accent spoke up. When you’re twelve, it’s hard to know the age of adults; they all seem old to you. But I’d say he was a bit younger than my father—perhaps thirty-five. “Beat you at chess, you mean?” he said. When I nodded, he raised an eyebrow skeptically. “Are you a good player?”
    Since I so seldom spoke to anyone outside my little circle, I had never learned to be either modest or tactful. “Yes. If I’m not, why would I bet money on myself?”
    He laughed. “I know many men who are not nearly as