That is, eyes belonging to some eight or nine representative citizens of Brownsville were so fixed, and for one critical moment there appeared to be a strong probability that Mr. Britton would fail to establish himself on any footing which would entitle him to favourable consideration. In some mysterious way he became aware of this without anything being said. Being, as he was, the focus of eight distinct glares of surprise, he became aware that something was wrong, and, pausing in the very act of lifting his glass, he looked slowly around, and then said, heartily enough: “Excuse me, gentlemen. Won’t you join me?” They would and they did, and it remained possible for Mr. Britton to make a good impression. The mere fact that he was unusual would not, of itself, damn him hopelessly, but the curious behaviour of a man who would come so near a fatal breach of etiquette in apparent unconsciousness, was enough to raise a doubt, and while the doubt remained Brownsville was not likely to make overtures. Jim Bixby, the stage-driver, had swallowed his liquor and gone outside to attend to his horses, and, after an interchange of glances among some of the others in the room, Larry Hennessy slouched out through the door and was lost to sight. Making his way to the stable, where Bixby was rubbing his horses down, he stood for a few moments looking on. Presently he said: “Thot mon inside, yonder. Is he a La Crosse man, I don’t know?” Bixby finished with one horse and began on the other before he answered. Then he said: “He’s on’y been around f’r about a week. Come f’m somewheres East. Been playin’ cards a good bit in Russell’s place. Left kind o’ sudden. Didn’t hear much about it, but they was some kind of a mix-up in a game last night. Didn’t have nothin’ to say comin’ over.” This marvel of succinctness being duly absorbed by Hennessy and reported to the community in a much enlarged form, was sufficient to prepare Brownsville for the campaign which Mr. Jack Britton entered upon forthwith. Having once shaken off the preoccupied and abstracted air which he wore when he arrived in town, he developed into a jovial, free-handed man of convivial tendencies, though sparing in his own consumption of Sam’s liquor, and was accepted readily enough as a nomad whose occupation was that of a professional gambler. It might have been supposed, because of certain previous experiences, that Brownsville would be reluctant to afford Mr. Britton an opportunity to exercise his skill, but Brownsville, in some respects, was like the rest of the world, and Long Mike and McCarthy were both resident in the place. “Sure, I do be thinkin’ that McCarthy can play more poker an’ win less money than any other mon in Iowa,” said Stumpy, when he came into the barroom that night and found a game in progress, as he had, indeed, shrewdly suspected would be the case.