“What’s your business, if it ain’t too inquisitive of me?” McLaughlin was saying as Kennedy reached the door. “I’m a――a diamond cutter,” was the somewhat hesitating answer. “But I had to give it up on account of my health. You can see it has taken hold of me.” Old Peter gave his husky-looking companion a quizzical, sidelong glance. “Mebbe so,” he half chuckled; “but I’d never noticed it if you hadn’t spoke. What are you planning to do?” “A pill slinger suggested that I ought to get out into the country and find a job somewhere in the open air. I’m looking for work on a farm.” “On a farm, hey?” “Yes, the rural life for mine. Between us, pal, I’ve hit it up some in my day. Even when I was a boy I was a high flier.” “You don’t say so!” The landlord knew that Kennedy had taken a seat in the room some distance behind them, but he did not look round. “I always was a wild chap,” the young man went on. “When I was a boy I touched plenty of high spots. Cards have tripped me, too. Ever play poker?” “Ho! Sometimes winters we have a little sociable game of penny ante round here just to pass away the time.” “I’ve been an easy mark at the game, but I like it. Can’t keep away. Every time I get a roll I go searching for trouble. I’ve got a little wad of long green right now that’s burning in my pocket. I’d like to find three or four good sports and get up a game.” “I don’t cal’late you can kick up one this season o’ the year,” said Peter. “’Sides that, we generally play among ourselves, not caring to gamble in the reg’ler sense of the word. The strait-laced people round here think that Satan’s got a strangle hold on anybody that plays cards for money.” “I was brought up in a strait-laced family, pal. My old man thought cards the tools of Satan. It broke my mother’s heart when she found I was playing penny ante with a bunch of youngsters. Maybe that’s what finished her. But come, what’s the use to talk of things like that?” “Yep, what’s the use? Baseball’s the game in the summertime hereabouts. We’ve got a pretty hot team, I tell you. All we need now is a rattlin’ good pitcher.” “The guff I hear and see in the newspapers about baseball makes me tired, bo. Seems like ninety per cent. of the population has gone bug-house about the game.” “Well, that don’t hurt ’em. Folks has got to have something for recreation. All work and no play is bad policy. Don’t s’pose you know where we could get holt of a good pitcher, a left-hander?” Locke seemed to meditate a moment as if seeking to recall something, then in a queer way he answered: “One time I was mistook for a pitcher I happened to look like. A gent blew up and called me by that ball tosser’s name and asked me how I was doing at it. Really, he didn’t believe me when I told him I’d never pitched a ball in my life and that I didn’t know a curve from a――from a wedge of――restaurant pie.”