The Argosy, April 1912 — page 74: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

60 advise you to try that, however, as you might get mussed up.” Roost pondered over this new phase in the situation for a minute and then turned with a shrug of his shoulders and reentered the car. He made his way to the smoker and sat down. “Now go ahead and do your darnedest,” he growled. Roost apparently addressed this remark to that indefinable something that seemed to be directing his destinies just then. “I’m goin’ to stick her through now if I bust a leg and go to jail. ‘This here ticket reads to Chicago and as I can’t find the owner I reckon I might’s well use it and go there as anywhere, seein’ I don’t dast go home without that check.” He continued ruminating along this line until some one touched him on the shoulder. -“ Want to join me and my pardner in a little game of eucher?” inquired a voice at his side. : The cowboy glanced up to find a square- visaged face, with a black cigar sticking out of one corner of its mouth, gazing down at him. Roost shook his head negatively and sub- sided into himself again. “Tt’s only a little friendly game, just for the fun of it,” urged the other. Roost shook his head more positively this time. “Don’t never play for fun,” he growled. The man shrugged his shoulders and moved off down the aisle. Shortly he re- turned with another passenger and was met by two more. ‘The four took seats facing each other across the aisle from Roost and the game was soon started. For perhaps ten minutes it proceeded quietly, during which time the conductor passed through the car collecting tickets. Roost surrendered his without comment. He had become quite reconciled to what- ever the fates might decree. Suddenly the voice of the man who had invited him to play rose above the din of the train. “Betcher ten dollars!” it blustered. Roost glanced across the aisle with a slight show of interest. “Betcher twenty you ain’t,” answered the man who sat opposite the first speaker. He was a fat, pudgy individual with a huge red necktie and nose to match, and a derby hat cocked at the same angle as his opponent’s. “Put up your money,” promptly ordered THE ARGOSY. the first man, and simultaneously both dived into their pockets and produced wal- lets from which they counted out some bills and heaped them in the middle of the board the porter had furnished for a table. “Here, mister, you deal this draw,” in- vited the fat man, shoving the remainder of the deck over to his left-hand neighbor, a short, round little gentleman, with a bald spot and a celluloid collar, whose face ex- pressed the same degree of alertness and in- telligence as a half-grown bull-pup’s. “Certainly, gentlemen, certainly,” he acquiesced, swelling with appreciation and importance at the commission. ‘“ How many, gentlemen?” The bettors drew two cards each and then came the show-down. Square Visage held three jacks and a pair of aces, which he displayed triumphantly only to look very much surprised and crestfallen when his opponent laid down three queens and a pair of kings. “T win!” announced Fat Man with a loud guffaw. “I reckon you ain’t so much of a poker-player as you think you are. Guess you’d better stick to straight eucher from now on, hey?” ‘That talk sounds lke it was made to order,” was Roost’s comment to himself. “Now, if I ain’t mistaken, our little bald friend is due to get stung directly.” He made a good guess, for after several more rounds, Square Visage discovered that he had another poker hand. Roost noted that he did this on Fat Man’s deal. ‘“T’ye got some more good money that says this here hand beats anything around the board,’’ announced Square Visage. “JT ain’t got anything but a pair of deuces,” said Fat Man, throwing down his cards with an expression of disgust. Then suddenly he leaned over and glanced at Bald Head’s cards. “Hully gee!” he exclaimed in apparent surprise. ‘“‘ You’ve got a peach of a hand there, ain’t you, pardner? You ain’t going to lay that down, are you?” Little Bald Head studied his cards wisely for a minute while Fat Man continued to urge him on. “Why, yes,” he announced finally, “I guess this hand is worth risking a ten-spot on.”’ “Betcher twenty,” promptly challenged Square Visage. Bald Head hesitated, whereupon Fat Man whispered disgustedly: “You ain't GoOMmiGc soo S