A laugh went up at this, and all the group turned and looked at the big man with the mustache. But this individual went on fingering his cards without the twitch of an eyelid. “So Finn has left town,” said Young Van, addressing his vis-a-vis. “Yes,” Charlie replied humorously. “He had to see a man down to Paradise.” “Who is that big man over there?” “Him?” Charlie’s voice dropped. “Why, that’s him--Jack Flagg.” “Did you tell me last night that he was a cook?” Charlie nodded. “He’s won’erful--won’erful! I know ’im. I’ve been workin’--” Young Van pushed back his chair and got up. For a moment he stood looking at the forbidding face and mighty frame of the man who was now the central figure in the room; then he crossed over and touched him on the shoulder. “How are you?” said he, painfully conscious, as every waking eye in the room was turned on him, that he did not know how to talk to these men. Flagg looked up. “They tell me you can cook,” said the engineer. “What’s that to you?” said Flagg. “Do you want a job?” “This is Mr. Van’ervelt,” put in Charlie, who had followed; “Mr. Van’ervelt, of the railroad.” “What’ll you pay?” asked Flagg. Young Van named the amount. “When do you want to start?” “Now.” “Charlie,”--Flagg was sweeping in a heap of chips,--“go down to Jim’s and get my things and fetch ’em here.” And with this he turned back to the game. Young Van looked uncertainly at Charlie, whose condition was hardly such that he could be trusted to make the trip without a series of stops in the numerous havens of refuge along the way. The thing to do was perhaps to go with him; at any rate, that is what Young Van did. “Won’erful man!” murmured Charlie, when they reached the sidewalk. Then, “Say, Mr. Van’ervelt, come over here a minute--jus’ over to Bill White’s. Wanna see a man,--jus’ minute.” But Young Van was not in a tolerant mood. “Stiffen up, Charlie,” he said sharply. “No more of this sort of thing--not if you’re going with us.” Charlie was meekly obedient, and even tried to hurry; but at the best it took considerable time to get together the clothing of the cook and his assistant, pay their bill, and return to Murphy’s. This much accomplished, it became necessary to use some tact with Flagg, who was bent on winning a little more before stopping. And as Flagg could easily have tossed the engineer out of the window, and had, besides, the strategical advantage, Young Van was unable to see much choice for himself in the matter. And standing there, waiting on the pleasure of his cook, he passed the time in wondering where he had made his mistake. Paul Carhart, or John Flint, he thought, would never have found it necessary to take the undignified measures to which he had been reduced. But what was the difference? What would they have done? In trying to answer these questions he hit on every reason but the right one. He forgot that he was a young man. * * * * *