Neighbor Jones sprawled largely in his tilted chair, smoking with vast and enviable enjoyment. One hand was pocketed. The other, big, strong, blunt-fingered, tapped on the window sill a brave tattoo of ringing hoofs--no finicky, mimimy tanbark trot, but steady and measured, a great horse breasting the wind and the rain. To this strong cadence Neighbor Jones trolled a merry stave from the amazing ballad of the Chisholm Trail: “_Foot in the saddle and a hand on the horn; Best old cowboy ever was born. Hi, yi--yi--yippy, yippy hi--yi--yi! Hi--yi--yi--yippy--yippy--yea!--_” In the lines of the long taper from broad shoulders to booted feet; in the massive broad-browed head; the tawny hair; the square, ruddy-brown face; the narrowed sleepy eyes--in every mold and motion of the man, balanced and poised, there was something lionlike; something one might do well to remark. But his one companion, the Kansas City Kid, remarked none of those things. The Kansas City Kid was otherwise engrossed--with his own cleverness. “Oh, I’ll show you, all right! There’s one born every minute,” said the K. C. Kid crisply. “How many hands? Five? Five is right. Second hand for Jones; first hand is the winner. Watch me close!” He shuffled the cards with a brisk and careless swing, cutting them once, twice, thrice, with flourish and slap; shuffled again, with a smooth ripple pleasant to the ear, and shoved the deck across for a final cut. “See anything wrong? No? Here we go! Watch!” He dealt five poker hands, face down. “Now then, look! You’ve got three tens and a pair of trays. First hand has jacks up, opens, stands a raise from you, draws one black jack.” Illustrating, the Kid flipped the top card from the deck. It was the spade jack. “Then you bet your fool head off. He should worry. And that’s the way they trimmed you--see?” Neighbor Jones blinked a little and twisted his tawny-gold hair to a peak, retaining unshaded and unchanged his look of sleepy good nature. “Smooth work!” he said approvingly. “You’re dead right, it’s smooth work!” asserted the gratified artist. “Some class to that! Them guys that got yours couldn’t do any such work--they was raw! I’m showing you what I got, so you can figure out the surprise party you and me can hand to ’em--see? Say, they pulled a lot of stunts the Old Ladies’ Home is wise to back in my town--strippers, short cards, holdouts, cold decks--old stuff! Honest, they make me sick! I can steal the gold out of their teeth and they’ll never miss it!” Jones looked at the man with wonder and pity. The poor wretch was proud of his sorry accomplishment, displayed it with pleasure, thought himself envied for it. By this shameful skill he had come so far, in the pride and heyday of youth--to such dire shifts, such ebbs and shallows; to empty days, joyless, friendless, without hope of any better morrow. No dupe he had gulled but might grieve for him, cut off, clean aside from all purpose or meaning of life.