nto a joint called The Reception, and who'd I see playing
'bank' but 'Single Out' Wilmer, the worst gambler on the river.
Mounted police had him on the woodpile in Dawson, then tied a can on
him. At the same table was a nice, tender Philadelphia squab, 'bout
fryin' size, and while I was watching, Wilmer pulls down a bet
belonging to it. That's an old game.

"'Pardon me,' says the broiler; 'you have my checks.'

"'What?' growls 'Single Out;' 'I knowed this game before you quit
nursin', Bright Eyes. I can protect my own bets.'

"'That's right,' chimes the dealer, who I seen was 'Curly' Budd,
Wilmer's pardner.

"'Lord!' thinks I, 'there's a pair to draw to.'

"'Do you really think you had ought to play this? It's a man's
game,' says Wilmer nasty.

"I expected to see the youngster dog it. Nothin' of the kind.

"'That's my bet!' he says again, and I noticed something dry in his
voice, like the rustle of silk.

"Single Out just looks black and snarls at the dealer.

"'Turn the cards!'

"'Oh, very well,' says the chechako, talking like a little girl.

"Somebody snickered and, thinks I 'there's sprightly doin's
hereabouts. I'll tarry a while and see 'em singe the fowl. I like
the smell of burning pin feathers; it clears my head.'

"Over in the far corner was another animal in knee panties, riggin'
up one of these flash-light, snappy-shot, photograft layouts. I
found afterwards that he done it for a living; didn't work none, just
strayed around as co-respondent for an English newspaper syndicate,
taking pictures and writing story things. I didn't pay much
attention to him hiding under his black cloth, 'cause the faro-table
was full of bets, and it's hard to follow the play. Well,
bye-and-bye Wilmer shifted another stack belonging to the Easterner.

"The lad never begged his pardon nor nothin'. His fist just shot out
and landed on the nigh corner of Wilmer's jaw, clean and fair, and
'Single Out' done as pretty a headspin as I ever see--considering
that it was executed in a cuspidore. 'Twas my first insight into the
amenities of football. I'd like to see a whole game of it. They say
it lasts an hour and a half. Of all the cordial, why-how-do-you-do
mule kicks handed down in rhyme and story, that wallop was the
adopted daddy.

"When he struck, I took the end of the bar like a steeplechaser, for
I seen 'Curly' grab at the drawer, and I have aversions to witnessing
gun plays from the front end. The t