Gash Tuttle ordered a beer. The barkeeper filled a tall flagon with brew drawn from the wood, wiped the clinging froth from its brim with a spatulate tool of whittled cedar, and placed the drink before the newcomer, who paid for it out of a silver dollar. Even as Mr. Tuttle scooped in his change and buried the lower part of his face in the circumference of the schooner he became aware that the other customer had drawn nearer and was idly rattling a worn leather cup, within which dice rapped against the sides like little bony ghosts uneasy to escape from their cabinet at a séance. The manipulator of the dice held a palm cupped over the mouth of the cup to prevent their escape. He addressed the barkeeper: "Flem," he said, "you're such a wisenheimer, I'll make you a proposition: I'll shake three of these here dice out, and no matter whut they roll I'll betcha I kin tell without lookin' whut the tops and bottoms will come to--whut the spots'll add up to." The other desisted from rinsing glassware in a pail beneath the bar. "Which is that?" he inquired sceptically. "You kin tell beforehand whut the top and bottom spots'll add up?" "Ary time and every time!" "And let me roll 'em myself?" "And let you roll 'em yourself--let anybody roll 'em. I don't need to touch 'em, even." "How much'll you risk that you kin do that, Fox?" Roused greed was in the speaker's tone. "Oh, make it fur the drinks," said Fox--"jest fur the drinks. I ain't aimin' to take your money away frum you. I got all the money I need." For the first time he seemed to become aware of a third party and he turned and let a friendly hand fall on the stranger's shoulder. "Tell you whut, Flem, we'll make it drinks fur this gent too. Come on, brother," he added; "you're in on this. It's my party if I lose, which I won't, and ole Flem's party if he loses, which he shore will." It was the warmth of his manner as much as the generosity of his invitation that charmed Mr. Tuttle. The very smile of this man Fox invited friendship; for it was a broad smile, rich in proteids and butterfats. Likewise his personality was as attractively cordial as his attire was striking and opulent. "'Slide or slip, let 'er rip!'" said Mr. Tuttle, quoting the poetic words of a philosopher of an earlier day. "That's the talk!" said Fox genially. He pushed the dice box across the bar. "Go to it, bo! Roll them bones! The figure is twenty-one!" From the five cubes in the cup the barkeeper eliminated two. He agitated the receptacle violently and then flirted out the three survivors on the wood. They jostled and crocked against one another, rolled over and stopped. Their uppermost faces showed an ace, a six and a five. "Twelve!" said Flem. "Twelve it is," echoed Fox. "A dozen raw," confirmed Gash Tuttle, now thoroughly in the spirit of it. "All right, then," said Fox, flashing a beam of admiration toward the humourist. "Now turn 'em over, Flem--turn 'em over careful."