“Well, it’s nice to look at,” Smithie observed. “But I’m with Old Bill. How long are you two goin’ to keep this thing goin’? If Collie wins the luck piece I suppose Charlie’ll bet him fifteen against it, and then----” “No, I won’t,” Charlie interrupted. “Ten’s the limit.” “Goin’ to keep on bettin’ ten against it all night?” “No,” said Charlie. “I tell you what I’ll do with you, Collinson; we both of us seem kind o’ set on this luck piece, and you’re already out some on it. I’ll give you a square chance at it and at catchin’ even. It’s twenty minutes after nine. I’ll keep on these side bets with you till ten o’clock, but when my clock hits ten, we’re through, and the one that’s got it then keeps it, and no more foolin’. You want to do that, or quit now? I’m game either way.” “Go ahead and deal,” said Collinson. “Whichever one of us has it at ten o’clock, it’s his, and we quit!” But when the little clock on Charlie’s green painted mantel-shelf struck ten, the luck piece was Charlie’s and with it an overwhelming lien on the one hundred dollar bill. He put both in his pocket. “Remember this ain’t my fault; it was you that insisted,” he said, and handed Collinson four five-dollar bills as change. Old Bill, platonically interested, discovered that his cigar was sparkless, applied a match, and casually set forth his opinion. “Well, I guess that was about as poor a way of spendin’ eighty dollars as I ever saw, but it all goes to show there’s truth in the old motto that anything at all can happen in any poker game! That was a mighty nice hundred dollar bill you had on you, Collie; but it’s like what Smithie said: a piece o’ money goes hoppin’ around from one person to another--it don’t care!--and yours has gone and hopped to Charlie. The question is: Who’s it goin’ to hop to next?” He paused to laugh, glanced over the cards that had been dealt him, and concluded: “My guess is ’t some good-lookin’ woman’ll prob’ly get a pretty fair chunk o’ that hundred dollar bill out o’ Charlie. Well, let’s settle down to the ole army game.” They settled down to it, and by twelve o’clock (the invariable closing hour of these pastimes in the old shack) Collinson had lost four dollars and thirty cents more. He was commiserated by his fellow gamesters as they put on their coats and overcoats, preparing to leave the hot little rooms. They shook their heads, laughed ruefully in sympathy, and told him he oughtn’t to carry hundred dollar bills upon his person when he went out among friends. Old Bill made what is sometimes called an unfortunate remark. “Don’t worry about Collie,” he said, jocosely. “That hundred dollar bill prob’ly belonged to some rich client of his.” “What!” Collinson said, staring. “Never mind, Collie; I wasn’t in earnest,” the joker explained. “Of course I didn’t mean it.”