Gunschke’s cigar shop was still open as Coffin reached the corner of Brush Street. He walked briskly inside the open sales-room (for a cigar shop has but three walls in San Francisco’s gentle clime) and, with the assurance of one who has just touched a humpback and the carelessness of a millionaire, he exchanged Coffee John’s dime for two nickels, dropped one down the slot of the machine on the counter and sprang the handle. The five wheels of playing-cards whirled madly, then stopped, leaving a poker-hand exposed behind the wire. He had caught a pair of kings, good for a “bit” cigar. Coffin was disappointed, and yet, after all, there was a slight gain in the transaction. Investing five cents, he had won twelve and a half cents’ worth of merchandise. It was not sufficiently marvellous to turn his head, but his luck was evidently on the up-curve, though it was rising slowly enough. He took the other nickel—his last—and jerked the handle again, awaiting with calmness for the cards to come to a standstill. As the wheels settled into place a man with green eyes and a bediamonded shirt front came up and leaned over Coffin’s shoulder. “Good work! A straight flush, by crickety!—forty cigars! Get in and break the bank, young fellow!” Coffin turned to him with nonchalance, while the clerk marked the winning in a book. “Nn—nn! I know when I’ve got enough.” “Play for me then, will you?” the other rejoined. “You’ve got luck, you have!” “I don’t propose to make a present of it to you, if I have; I need every stitch of it myself.” And then Coffin, touched with a happy thought, began to swagger. “Besides, if I’m going to smoke this forty up to-night I’ve got to get busy with myself.” He looked knowingly at the goods displayed for his choice, pinching the wrappers. “I’ve never had all the cigars I could smoke yet, and I’m going to try my limit. Got any Africana Panatelas, Colorado Maduro?” he asked the clerk. A small box was taken down from the shelf. Coffin accepted it and walked leisurely toward the door. “Good Lord!” cried the stranger, following him. “You don’t think you can tackle forty cigars on a stretch, do you? Kid, it’ll kill you!” “It’s a beautiful death,” Coffin replied, jauntily, “you can tell mamma I died happy.” The cigar clerk grinned. “Strikes me you’re troubled with youngness,” said the stranger, looking him over. Coffin ruffled at his patronizing tone. “See here! D’you think I can’t get away with these forty cigars, smoking ’em in an end-to-end chain down to one-inch butts?” “I bet you a hundred dollars you get sick as a pig first!” was the reply. “Taken!” Coffin cried, and went at him with fire in his eye. “See here, I left all my money on my grand piano, but if you’ll trust me I’ll trust you without stakes held. We’ll get the clerk here to see fair play, and if I don’t see this box to a finish or pay up, you two can push the face off me. What d’you say?”