Mr. Hennage laughed boldly, as he realized on what a slender foundation his gigantic bluff was resting, and what an impression his words had made upon Carey. The latter pulled himself together and favored the gambler with a wintry grin. “Kinder game little pup, after all” thought Mr. Hennage. “He thinks he's licked, but he's goin' to bluff it out to the finish. I believe if this feller was on the level I'd like him. He's no slouch at whatever he tackles, you bet.” “Very well, Mr. Hennage” said Carey quietly, “I think I understand you. See that you understand me, in order that we may both understand each other. You've declared war, on behalf of your felon of a partner. Very well, I accept. It's war.” In turn, T. Morgan Carey tapped Mr. Hennage on the knee with _his_ forefinger. “I'll keep my hands off your business in the state land office. Your applications can pass through for approval, for all I care, but I'll enter a contest, alleging fraud, against you in the General Land Office at Washington, and I'll hold you up for ten years in a mass of red tape. Hennage, you and McGraw have brains, I'll admit, but you can't play my game and beat me at it. If I'm not in on this melon-cutting, I'll spend a million dollars to delay the banquet. Let me tell _you_ something. The day will come when you'll come scraping your feet at my office door, begging for a compromise. I'm a business man, and I tell you before you're half through with this fight, you'll come to the conclusion that half a loaf is better than none at all--particularly in the matter of extra large loaves. You'll come to me and compromise.” “Gosh, I'm dry with argument” taunted Mr. Hennage. “Now that we understand each other, let's be friends. We _can_ be friends out o' business hours, can't we, Carey? Come an' have a drink.” “With all my heart” Carey retorted, with genuine pleasure. “I must confess to a liking for you, Mr. Hennage. I could kill you and then weep at your funeral, for upon my word you are the most amusing and philosophical opponent I have ever met. I really have hopes that ultimately you will listen to reason.” “There is no hope” said Mr. Hennage, as he took T. Morgan Carey by the arm--almost, as Mrs. Dan Pennycook would have expressed it, “friendly like,” and escorted him to the hotel bar. Here Mr. Hennage produced a thousand-dollar bill from his vest pocket (he had carried that bill for ten years and always used it as a flash during his peregrinations outside San Pasqual) and calmly laid it on the bar. “Wine” he said. Mr. Hennage's order, when doing the handsome thing, was always “wine.” The barkeeper set out a pint of champagne and filled both glasses. The gambler raised his to the light, eyed it critically and then flashed his three gold teeth at T. Morgan Carey. “Here's damnation to you, Mr. Carey” he said. “May you live unhappily and die in jail.”