“I took it from Bill. It’s in my possession now. Therefore, if your premise is sound, the money is mine. Why, Treplin, I’m really obliged to you for furnishing me such a clear title to my loot. It was—ah—beginning to trouble my conscience.” He laughed suddenly, punctuating his laughter with a blow of his fist on the table. “All rot, Treplin; all silly sophistry which weak men have built up to protect themselves from the strong! The infernal lie that because a man is in possession of a certain thing it is his to the exclusion of the rest of the world! Property-rights! I’ll tell you the truth—why this money is mine, why I’m the one who has the real title to it. I was able to take it, and I am able to keep it. There’s the natural law of property-rights, Treplin. What do you say to that?” “Fine!” laughed Toppy, throwing up his hands in surrender. “You bowl me over, Reivers. The money is yours; and—” he glanced at the cards “—and if you and I should play a little game of poker, joker and deuces wild, and I should take it away from you, it would be mine; and there you are.” The words had slipped out of him, apparently without any aim; but Toppy saw by the sudden glance which Reivers dropped to the cards that the gambling-hunger in the Snow-Burner had been awakened. “Joker and deuces wild,” he repeated as if fascinated. “Yes, that ought to help make a two-handed game fast.” The whole manner of the man seemed for the moment changed. For the first time since Toppy had met him he seemed to be seriously interested. Previously, when he played with the lives and bodies of men or devilled their minds with his wiles, his interest had never been deeper than that of a man who plays to keep himself from being bored. He was the master in all such affairs; they could furnish him at their best but an idle sort of interest. But not even the Snow-Burner was master of the inscrutable laws of Chance. Nor was he master of himself when cards were flipping before his eyes. Toppy had guessed right; Reivers had a weakness, and it was to be “card-crazy.” “Get over there on that other table with your solitaire, Campbell!” he ordered. He reached into Campbell’s liquor-cabinet and drew out a fresh pack of cards, which he tossed to Toppy. “You started something, Mr. Humanitarian,” he continued, clearing the table. “Open the deck and cut for deal. Then show me what you’ve got to stack up against this ninety-eight dollars.” And he slapped a wad of crumpled bills on the table. Toppy nonchalantly reached into his pockets. Then he grinned. The two twenty-dollar bills which he had paid the agent back in Rail Head for the privilege of hiring out to Hell Camp were all the money he had with him. He was broke. He debated with himself a moment, then unhooked his costly watch from the chain and pushed it across to Reivers.