The Major

It was 1 o’clock in the morning. The Coleman lantern shone through the window, giving a bit of light to a raccoon that was busy scattering the contents of the kitchen garbage bag outside. Inside the cabin two men slouched in their chairs. A third had his elbows on the poker table and his head in his hands. They appeared to be dispirited and quietly contemplating some painful experience. The fourth man, Major Nathaniel Peabody (USA, ret.), was smiling and stacking chips piled up before him.

“Gentlemen,” he said as he rattled the ice cubes in his empty glass, “look upon it as a learning experience. When you compare the instruction   you’ve received tonight with the costs of university tuitions, the lessons have been quite inexpensive.”

The silent hunters regained their voices. One of them snorted and complained: “The only thing I’ve learned is to avoid decks of cards that refuse to help me when I hold four-card flushes.”

The man at the ice chest now refilling Peabody’s glass said, “The poker gods are the ones who failed to smile upon me. They’re the ones who have done me in.”

Without looking up, the hunter with his head in his hands muttered, “We should replace that ‘Beware of Dog’ sign with one that says ‘Beware of Peabody.’”

The Major showed no reaction to the unkind statement. “For nearly a century,” he said, “psychiatrists have insisted that personal responsibility no longer exists. They have said that the axe murderer who attempts to solve the world’s overpopulation problem in his own special way is not responsible for his acts. Blame, they have told us, should be assigned to someone else—usually the killer’s parents, who must have engaged in potty training him at too young an age.

“Ever since our prehistoric progenitor, Homo habilis, developed the opposable thumb and, thus, was able to shuffle a deck of cards, gambling losses have been blamed on bad luck. Shooting both barrels and missing every one of the ducks in the flock that wheeled over your decoys has also consistently been blamed on bad luck.

“Yes, when things go wrong, it is the well-established and time-honored practice to point the finger of blame at someone else. However, I must disagree with you. I believe you err in blaming your collective misfortune at the table on bad luck, on the perversity of a deck of cards, on the poker gods or on me.

“Anthropologists believe the dinosaur evolved into modern-day birds. Think of it. It’s truly an amazing feat. However, the genus Homo sapiens has accomplished an even more amazing achievement. It developed the concepts of faith and hope and charity: the three most admirable qualities that are found in the human being. The facility to believe—to have faith, the ability to hope, and the capacity to extend charity—distinguishes mankind from the lower animals.

“It would appear that the biblical pronouncement that promotes them has not fallen on deaf ears. Tonight each of you has confidently confirmed your belief in faith, hope and charity. In spite of odds that would cause most men to muck their cards, you have displayed a surprising hope and faith that the card needed to fill an inside straight or change two pairs to a full house would be dealt to you and result in you receiving the pot.

“I am particularly thankful for your faith and hope. Of course it would be unkind of me not to mention my appreciation for the charity you have shown in following and, on occasion, raising my bets. I acknowledge my appreciation for the funding your faith, hope and charity have brought me. You all have been very kind.”

Peabody paused while his audience snorted and groaned and someone asked, “Can’t anybody shut him up?”

The Major allowed a faint smile to cross his face and continued. “I won’t criticize your acceptance of faith, hope and charity, because I must admit they have been the rule and guide of my life. Only through the exercise of amazing self-control have I been able to disregard them while seated at the poker table. Most men could not sublimate such a driving urge as I have felt, but my strength is as the strength of 10 because my heart is pure.”

Peabody’s admission was duly acknowledged by his companions. Their comments were: “I think I’m going to throw up,” and, “Please stop; I’m allergic to bull byproduct,” and, “Sanctimonious son of a female dog.”

Peabody paid no attention. “This evening my charitable urges have been overwhelming, and I have nearly found myself deciding to give each of you $20. I’ve tried to convince myself that such a gift would be an appropriate rebate for your kindness and generosity at the table. However, upon further consideration I have rejected that thought. I know you are all too proud to accept charity.”

Murmurs of protest began, and one of the three hunters stood and said, “I’m not,” while another yelled, “Just try me!”

Peabody quickly held up his hand to quiet them. “No, no,” he said. “I’m sure not one of you would stoop to accept an outright gift of part of the money you have honorably lost at the gaming table. At the same time, the charitable urge within me is so strong that I cannot deny it. You see my problem, don’t you? I want to give, and you are too proud to accept. Whatever shall I do?”

The Major thought for a moment and then exclaimed: “Eureka! I believe I have found a path around my dilemma. Suppose you were to make a bet with me. If you won, you would not be humiliated by receiving charity and my urge to soften your poker losses would be honorably satisfied. I would not have offered charity; you would not have accepted it.”

Peabody’s statement was greeted with skepticism and distrust.

“Look out. He’s got something up his sleeve.”

“I wouldn’t bet with Peabody if he was the last man on earth.”

“I would bet with Peabody, but only if he was the last man on earth.”

Major Peabody went to the ice chest, opened it and removed an orange. He placed it in the center of the poker table and slowly shook his head in disappointment. “So much for good deeds,” he said. “Out of the generosity that is so characteristic of my being, I was going to bet each of you $20 that I could tell the exact number of seeds inside this orange.”

Abrupt silence followed as the other hunters showed signs of interest in the proposition. They huddled and softly analyzed the bet. “Is it one of those seedless oranges?”

“No. The one I ate had lots of seeds.”

“Do you think he opened that one and counted them?”

“You don’t think he’s telling the truth, do you?” They looked at each other and found agreement.

“You’ve got a bet,” one of them said. “But we get to select the orange, OK?”

Major Peabody nodded his agreement. With a smile of Christian charity, he began to peel the substituted orange. “I’ll tell you the number of seeds,” he said, “just as soon as I open this thing and count them.”

As his companions howled accusations of him being a cheat, a swindler and a liar, Peabody looked at them with surprise. “I am, in fact, a true devotee of sweet charity,” he protested. Then he added, “Of course, as you know, charity begins at home.”

Galen Winter’s favorite Major stories have been collected and anthologized in The Best of the Major, available for $25 (plus shipping) from 800-685-7962; www.shootingsportsman.com.