Penny-ante and the ole home-brew had been in festal operation for half an hour when the morose Collinson arrived this evening. Mr. Loomis and his guests sat about the round table under the alabaster drop light; their coats were off; cigars were worn at the deliberative poker angle; colourful chips and cards glistened on the cloth; one of the players wore a green shade over his eyes; and all in all, here was a little poker party for a lithograph. “Ole Collie, b’gosh!” Mr. Loomis shouted, humorously. “Here’s your vacant cheer; stack all stuck out for you ’n’ ever’thin’! Set daown, neighbour, an’ Smithie’ll deal you in, next hand. What made you so late? Helpin’ the little girlie at home get the kiddy to bed? That’s a great kiddy of yours, Collie.” Collinson took the chair that had been left for him, counted his chips and then as the playing of a “hand” still preoccupied three of the company, he picked up a silver dollar that lay upon the table near him. “What’s this?” he asked. “A side bet? Or did somebody just leave it here for me?” “Yes; for you to look at,” Mr. Loomis explained. “It’s Smithie’s.” “What’s wrong with it?” “Nothin’. Smithie was just showin’ it to us. Look at it.” Collinson turned the coin over and saw a tiny inscription that had been lined into the silver with a point of steel. “Luck,” he read--“Luck hurry back to me!” Then he spoke to the owner of this marked dollar. “I suppose you put that on there, Smithie, to help make sure of getting our money to-night.” But Smithie shook his head, which was a large, gaunt head, as it happened--a head fronted with a sallow face shaped much like a coffin, but inconsistently genial in expression. “No,” he said. “It just came in over my counter this afternoon, and I noticed it when I was checkin’ up the day’s cash. Funny, ain’t it: ‘Luck hurry back to me!’” “Who do you suppose marked that on it?” Collinson said thoughtfully. “Golly!” his host exclaimed. “It won’t do you much good to wonder about that!” Collinson frowned, continuing to stare at the marked dollar. “I guess not, but really I should like to know.” “I would, too,” Smithie said. “I been thinkin’ about it. Might ’a’ been somebody in Seattle or somebody in Ipswich, Mass., or New Orleans or St. Paul. How you goin’ to tell? It’s funny how some people like to believe luck depends on some little thing like that.” “Yes, it is,” Collinson assented, still brooding over the coin.