“You ought to be familiar with the state of my pockets,” the blond youth returned, “having conducted a thorough search of them and purloined therefrom my last ten spot before I was awake. Why didn’t you reserve two bits for breakfast before you tossed it off on the wheel if you’re so damn near starved?” He remained with Carver while the others followed Wellman through the swinging side door that led into the adjoining restaurant. “And now, since Pete here,” said Bart, indicating the barkeeper, “steadfastly refuses to open a charge account, I’ll have to do some financing. Lend me a couple of quarts of your very worst,” he wheedled. “Not charge, you understand, but just lend ’em to me for a period of three minutes. Something round a dollar a quart.” The bartender selected a brace of black bottles and shoved them across to Lassiter who moved with them to a rear door that opened on an alley. Several blanketed figures prowled this rear thoroughfare and the copper-hued wards of the Government converged upon the man in the doorway. He exchanged the two quarts for two five-dollar bills, thereby becoming eligible for a protracted stay within the walls of the penitentiary. “Now we can start even,” he announced, paying Pete for the initial stock and retaining the surplus. “Quick turns and small profits is my rule of life.” “One day you’ll acquire a new rule--long years and no profits,” predicted the white-aproned philosopher behind the bar. “Unless you learn to transact that sort of business by the dark of the moon.” “Necessity,” Lassiter advanced in extenuation of his lack of caution. “Suppose you set us out a sample of something a few shades more palatable than what we just peddled to the old chief.” The two pooled their resources and pursued their casual carefree way, all sense of responsibility discarded for the moment, as one might shed an uncomfortable garment with the idea of donning it again at some future time. The youthful Lassiter, who deplored all things serious while at play, found in Carver a delightful companion who seemed sufficiently light-minded and irresponsible to satisfy the most exacting. The wheel in the Silver Dollar, the faro bank in the Senate and the crap layout in the Gilded Eagle, each contributed modestly to their swelling bank roll in response to a few casual bets. As they left this last-named resort Bart halted suddenly. Carver glanced up to determine the cause of this abrupt halt. Freel, a deputy United States marshal, had just passed, and Carver, recalling the incident of the two black bottles, concluded that Lassiter had decided against meeting the Federal officer at just that moment lest the news of the transaction had reached him. Freel walked with a girl, his hand clasping her arm familiarly as he piloted her through the crowd. Bart frowned after the couple.