"Hold on!" said the doctor as Hun was tilting the box to throw. "Cover that money before you throw. I've got six hundred dollars down there, and I want you to count out three thousand by the side of it." "Well, I've got the money, friend, if that's what you doubt," said Shanklin, with a lofty air of the injured gentleman. He drew a sheaf of bills from the valise and, in the stillness of awe which had come over the crowd, counted down the required amount. "I've won fortunes, gentlemen, and I've lost 'em," said Shanklin, taking up the box again. "Keep your eye on the dice." He was so certain of what would come out of the box that he reached for the money before the dice had settled, ready to sweep it away. But a change came over his face, as of sudden pain, when he saw the result of the throw, and with a little dry snort his hand shot out toward the revolver which lay beside his valise. The little man with whiskers, admirably cool, got there first. Hun Shanklin was looking into the end of his own gun, and unloading, through the vent of his ugly, flat mouth, the accumulated venom of his life. He was caught in his own trap by a sharper man than himself, a being that up to that minute he had believed the world could not produce. Dr. Slavens quickly gathered the money. The others around the table, blazing now in their desire to get a division of fortune's favors, put down their bets and called loudly for the gamekeeper to cover them. "Game's closed," Shanklin announced, shutting up his valise, into which he had tossed both dice and box. He made a move as if to part the tent-wall behind him. "Hold on!" said the doctor, snatching off his goggles and pushing up the brim of his hat. "I've got another score to settle with you, Shanklin. Do you know me now?" Shanklin didn't wait to reply. He dropped to his knees just as Slavens reached for him, catching the collar of his coat. In an instant the gambler was gone, but his coat was in Dr. Slavens' hand, a circumstance from which the assembled men drew a great deal of merriment. The chief of police, remiss in his high duty, should have been there to sustain Shanklin's hand, according to their gentlemanly agreement when the partnership was formed. He arrived too late. Shanklin was gone, and from the turmoil in the tent the chief concluded that he had trimmed somebody in his old-fashioned, comfortable way. So his duty, as he saw it in that moment, lay in clearing them out and dispersing them, and turning deaf ears to all squeals from the shorn and skinned. Dr. Slavens and his friend had nothing to linger for. They were the first to leave, the doctor carrying Shanklin's coat under his arm, the pockets of his own greasy makeshift bulging with more money than he ever had felt the touch of before. As they hurried along the dark street away from the scene of their triumph, the little man with fiery whiskers did the talking.