Shorty came forward. He took off his large sombrero and bowed low to the ground, in mock cavalier fashion as he good-humoredly said, "No lady, that’s where they’re voting for the most popular lady in the Sabbath-school." His sally was greeted with applause. Faith hardly noticed it; she had taken Hiram by the arm and was trying to drag him to the table. Pete called to them, "That’s not rouletty, that’s faro, lady." The parson added, "So called after Pharaoh’s daughter." "Who found a little prophet in the rushes on the bank," Shorty further explained. But Faith was eagerly whispering to Hiram, "You know, Hiram, frequently people by just putting down fifty cents, or a dollar, walk out with millions." Then timidly she added, "I’d like to try it once." "Faith Doolittle!" was all Hiram could exclaim, so great was his surprise at his wife’s request. Truly, he thought, women were strange cattle. To think of Faith, so quiet, so serene all these years, and then—to see her now with flushed cheeks, hat awry, and an eager, feverish look in her mild eyes as she tried to draw him to the table. "Oh," she pleaded, "only fifty cents’ worth, Hiram. There couldn’t be any harm in fifty cents’ worth." Behind his great hand Shorty convulsed the others by observing, "Mother’s a sport, but father’s near." Hiram now realized that he must be firm and leave this place that was affecting so strangely his wife’s conduct. "You couldn’t keep money got in that nefarious way, even if you won it," he explained; "you’re a churchwoman." "We could give some of it to the church," quickly reasoned Faith; "and, Hiram, we could do such a lot of good with a million. Just try fifty cents’ worth." She made a further attempt to reach the table. "Come out of here, Faith Doolittle," stormed Hiram, as he saw his protests were of no avail, "or you’ll have me going it in a minute." He, too, began to feel the tempting influence of the green cloth, the glittering money-heaps, and the feverish gayety of the ribald crowd. As Hiram started to lead Faith to the door they were stopped by Shorty. "Nick," he called to the bartender, "my friends, Mr. and Mrs. Hill—Bunkco Hill—of Boston." The slang name for the innocence of the couple caught the crowd’s fancy. They quickly formed a circle around them. "Pleased to know you," Nick observed from the bar. "What’s your drink?" He began filling glasses with whiskey. This time Hiram’s indignation was effectual. Grasping his now-frightened spouse by the arm, he fiercely drew her away, the cow-boys laughingly letting them go, with polite bows, and bits of advice called good-naturedly after them.