1887 Los Angeles Times By The Kelp Beds The Adventures of a Bunco-Steerer with a Reporter, How Santa Monica Got Rid of Gamblers—Talks with an Old Beach-Comber—Big Sharks—The Leopard Shark—Great Possibilities, July 11, 1887, p. 10
Santa Monica, July 7—(Correspondence of The Times) “Have you seen the shark?” The speaker was a trim-built young man, togged out in the extremes of Los Angeles fashion; and were it not for his heavy watch-chain and certain deep and peculiar lines on his smooth-shaven face, he might have passed for an innoceent clerk on a vacation.
The person addressed had not seen the shark and said so, whereupon the pleasant young man with the watch-chain offered to show it to him. “It came ashore last night,” he continued. “I was walking down the beach with my wife, when she saw something splash, and in a moment it ran right out upon the sand, and I, with some others, hauled it up. It’s quite a sight, if they haven’t cut it up. You are from the East, I presume?” continued the young man, as they walked along the bluff toward the Cliff House. “Well, it don’t quite come up to New York; but it’s a pretty place, and gtrowing.” The two had walked about an eighth of a mile in pleasant conversation, when another young man, with less watch-chain, but with the same peculiar face-lines, came up and said: “I beg your pardon, but some one told me there was a big fish on the beach up here. Can you tell me where it is?”
“We’re just going up to take a look at it. Come with us,” was the reply, and the new-comer fell in, and the three strolled along—two very spruce-looking young me, and one who might have hailed from San Francisco, if clothes were a criterion. The newcomer was equally pleased with Santa Monica, and had left his wife and children down on the beach while he hunted up the big fish. Two such pleasant strangers the plainly-dressed young man had not met for some time. He looked thankful, and perhaps he was.
“Hello,” said one of the spruce young men, suddenly stopping, “what’s this?” The object of his curiosity was another young man with the same lines, but shabby clothes—not torn, but shining. He was standing under a tree, continually looking over his shoulder, while in front of him stood a tripod haing a little table upon which were three nut-shells and two peas. “What’s this?” said the young man, going up and looking curiously at the table, while the others followed. “This, gentlemen,” said the young man with the table, “is the wheel of fortune; now you see it and now you don’t,” and he covered the peas with the nut-shells with an ease which spoke of much practice. “It’s a game just invented. I wager you can’t follow my hands with your eyes. It’s done this way: Now where is the pea?” “Here,” said one of the party, putting his finger on a nut. “Right you are,” replied the young man, uncovering the nut and showing the pea: “I’m glad I didn’t bet with you.” “I’ll wager a dollar I can do it every time,” replied the first speaker. “Go ahead,” said the other, and forthwith the dollar was put up and lost. Two were put up and won, and then the last inquirer about the shark concluded he would try it, and soon he had mulcted the tripod man of $5.
While the game was in progress the original shark-finder suggested that the young man in plain clothes try it. “Between you and me,” he siad “we can beat that chap out of all of his money. You watch his right hand: don’t pay any attention to the other.” “I wouldn’t mind trying him,” replied the other, “but I’ve left all my money about $100 over to the hotel. If you can lend me $10 until I go over I’ll try it.” “Certainly,” said the other; and the innocent-looking young man took the money, with the remark that if he won $25 he would get all his money and help break the game. Curiously enough, he did win $25 after losing once or twice, and then, folding up the money, he put it in his pocket and handed back the $10 he owed, with the remark that, on second thought, as he was about $15 ahead, he might as well hold up, and he suggested that they go on and see the shark. But the man with the tripod got mad, and the two men with the lines on their faces thought the poor man ought to have a fair play. But there was a peculiar grin on the face of the innocent young man, and as the tripod man applied an offensive title to him, he seemed to change in a minute, and with a single kick he sent peas, shells and tripod flying in the air, and the next moment the two young men, who had made a dash at him, were lying on the grass, and it was said later that the crack of their heads they came together was heard as far as Second street. The tripod man escaped; the other two were kickied into the street, and when last seen were headed for the depot. They are the last of the Santa Monica bunco-steerers, and their experience is a sad one. The wild-eyed yong man is still waiting to be shown the shark, but he sasys that the next monte man that says shark to him will go over the bluff. He happened to be a newpaper man waiting for something to turn up, and as is sometimes the case, the incidents came to him. This little incident has had a curious effect upon the bunco men here, and on Sunday, the 4th and 5th, when thousands were at Santa Monica, not a single steerer could be seen, and monte in all its phases has disappeared. The Santa Monica gamblers, or rather the Los Angeles men, who come here for that purpose, were hurting the place; yet, in point of fact, they were miserable specimens of their kind, not having the wit to change their story. At least twenty people approached by the steerers stated that they all had the same yarn about a shark having come ashore upon the beach—the idea being to get people up to where the third man had his little game, which was so arranged that he could pack it up as a cane and go sauntering off. The only game at present to be found here is the genuine wheel of fortune down on the beach. In the East this would soon be sat down upoin, and perhaps will be driven out of California soon.
Bunco men are not always the smart fellows they are ssupposed to be. They all bear their calling stamped upon their faces, and it is safe to say that no thorough business man of the world was ever trapped by one. A Los Angeles bunco man accosted a gentleman at Long Beach some time ago with the old story about having met him at San Francisco. “I guess not,” said the victim, “my name is Rodgers, and I live in Orange.” The man apologized and left. That evening, while on the beach, another man approached our friend and said: “How are you, Mr. Rodgers? How are the folks at Orange?” Rodgers pretended not to know him, but the steerer said he was a brother of a president of the bank at Orange, and was somewhat astonished when finally the would-be victim turned on him and wanted to borrow $50 to pay for his hotel bill. His fruend, the brother of the bank president, had turned up just in time. The bunco man was completely nonplussed. He could hardly refuse, after having said so much, and finally he said he did not have the money, but would go to the hotel and get it. But the supposed Rodgers clung to him, and caught him coming out the back door, followed him around for three hyours, pointing him out to the crowd or anybody they met as a gambler and confidence man. Rodgers of Orange, happened to be a prominent Christian Association man from the East, and as the next morning he rode to Los Angeles on the same train with the steerer, and pointed him out to all on the train, it is doubtful if the latter will try this field very soon again.
Today Santa Monica is as free from disturbances as any one could wish, and the season is fairly opened. The hotels are well patronized, and not a cottage can be hired for love or money in the best part of the town, and it is evident that the place will be the Long Branch of Los Angeles county. While many prefer Long Beach, Santa Monica is by far the more picturesque, having high bluffs like Long Branch, cañons of great beauty near at hand in the Sierra Santa Monica range, and good deer and fox shooting, which cannot be had to the south. The crowds which come down make for the beach, either bathing, or strolling up to the great arch, or down to the new harbor, while many more go fishing from the pier, or watch the hauling of the seine.
“There’s some curious things come in shore here,” said an old beachcomber, who might have been the original “lone fisherman.” “Ye see we’re kinder betwix and between here, an’ get the leavin’ of north and south. Sometimes it’s a big whale an’ then it’s a shark. I was walking along the beach some time ago, when I see a big plank off shore and thought I’d fetch it in; so I douces my clothes and starts in, and had got the plank right in shore, when my old woman, who was on the beach, sings out, “Look behing ye.” I did, and there was the fin of a shark right behind me. The next minute a roller sent us all on the beach in a bunch, and I grabbed him by the tail and swung him in. He was about nine feet long and had seven rows of teeth. No I don’t reckon he was after me. He got in shore too close and got rolled up by accident.
“The finest looking shark around here,” continued the old man, “is the leopard shark. You often see one at San Pedro. They grow about five feet long and have spots just like a leopard, and are a mighty tasty looking fish, but I never heard of anyone getting bit by one. There is a shark around here thatt’s nigh onto a whale in size. I’ve seen one thirty foot long. I was out barracuda-fishin’ one day with my mate, when he sings ou, “Look at that whale,” an’ sure enough, rhere was what looked like a capsized schooner, keel up, a-lying about a half a mile off. We crep up to it, and Jack, he put a harpoon into it, but when it sounded we see it was a big shark—a regular old rouser. Well, we hung to him for a matter of ten miles, and then, it coming on dark, we cut loose and thought no more about it, until about a week later some one writ Jack from Portugeses Cove that a big shark had come ashore with his harpoon in it. Ye see he had his name burnt in the handle so he went down and got it; and sure enough, the shark was as big as a thirty-fioot whale.”
The objects of the shore and the great marsh of Ballona afford a living to many persons at Santa Monica. The delicate seaweeds (Hydrozoans) that come in shore are collected and pressed in tasteful designs, and vast quantities are sold to tourists and visitors. The various birds that stop here on their way north, especially the egrets, herons and ibisess, are mounted as screens and fans, while many are shipped East for the trade there. The great marsh near the new harbor is probably one of the finest places for feathered game on the coast of Los Angeles county, and abounds in a remarkable variety of game, including some of the finest wild ducks. A good horse, that will allow shooting from the saddle is a desideratum, as certain parts of the swamp are fordable, while othere are extemely dangerous. The time is coming, and not far off, when the bluff of Santa Monica will be lined with fine hotels, and guests will be lowered up and down the ninety or more steps with elevators, while picturesque stairs will be built here and there. What is needed at this and other places is a concerted movement on the part of land-owners to beautify the place, and, secondly to offer some decided attraction of a nature that will draw cultivated people as well as the masses. A place with the attractions of Santa Monica in the East, near a city of 60,000 inhabitants, would be a bonanza that would become famous in little or no time. Here beautiful cañons and mountain retreats reach down to the very shore, and one finds a combination of saline and mountain odors affording strange and attractive possibilities.
“Kelp”