“‘“H’m,” says he, makin’ a fat man’s shift in his chair and pushin’ his seegar into the other corner of his face. “I want you to understand this is a dead-straight game run here, my bucko--yet you look good--s’pose I’ve come in an’ laid thirty cents or so on the king, coppered. Lift the joker out of that deck an’ le’s see what happens.” “‘He threw me a pack and I riffled and boxed ’em. “‘“Why, you lose,” says I, much surprised as the king came out open on the turn. “‘“And not so worse,” says he. “Play on!” “‘I slid ’em out of the box to the last card. “You only lost your footin’ once,” says he. “The way you beat my corner play was a little obvious. Exercise your little finger till it’s soopler. You can handle a roll to-night. But mind this,” says he as he grunted himself on his feet, “this is a dead-straight house. If anybuddy _ketches_ you bein’ technical, we jump you, from me to the cop on watch. You get five per cent.” “‘Well, sir, that was the loveliest little bower of rosebuds you ever smelt! Checks was joolry. We didn’t have change for nothin’ below a fifty-dollar bill. Our line of customers was these tur’ble knowin’ young men of the world, who’d stood the terrific experience of a college careerin’. They was a darin’ outfit. They was so fast they couldn’t help talk about the pace they was hittin’, and what they didn’t know about the game of faro was my business. It was like bein’ knocked down in the street by a strong man and have money pushed into your clothes. I did things at that table that never happened before in a civilized community. I was so youthful, you know, and it was a constant problem to me whether they’d stand for biting off the corner of a card to make things come my way. “‘I run in rhinecaboos that ’ud make a heathen Scandahonian farmer fall off his hay-wagon, but them men of the world simply contributed yallerbacks--oh, good old yallerbacks!--beautiful to the eye; soft to the touch; _so_ encouragin’ to the feelin’s! I reckoned I’d buy the durned old Western Union an’ get even with the cuss who used to pound it to me from up the line--Ouch! vanished dream! Sweet vision stuck to earth by that con-cussed, snappy, stringy, bouncy, mud-colored foolish food fer flighty females you see before you!’ “At this p’int,” said Mr. Scraggs, “he shot his finger at my gum, breathin’ hard an’ glitterin’ his eyes.