casion. When not engaged in
helping himself to the dregs that remained in the glasses carelessly
left about the room, he was generally to be found squatted down on the
floor and playing a solitaire of his own devising. But now he reached
over Sonora's shoulder and put some coins on the table in front of the
dealer.

"Give Billy Jackrabbit fer two dolla' Mexican chip," he demanded in a
guttural voice.

The Sidney Duck did as requested. While he was shuffling the cards for
a new deal, the players beat time with their feet to the music that
floated in from the dance-hall. The tune seemed to have an unusually
exhilarating effect on Happy Halliday, for letting out a series of
whoops he staggered off towards the adjoining room with the evident
intention of getting his fill of the music, not forgetting to yell
back just before he disappeared:

"Root hog or die, boys!"

Happy's boisterous exit caused a peculiar expression to appear
immediately on Handsome's face, which might be interpreted as one of
envy at his friend's exuberant condition; at all events, he proceeded
forthwith to order several drinks, gulping them down in rapid
succession.

Meanwhile, at the faro table, the luck was going decidedly against the
boys. In fact, so much so, that there was a dangerous note in Sonora's
voice when, presently, he blurted out:

"See here, gambolier Sid, you're too lucky!"

"You bet!" approved Trinidad, and then added:

"More chips, Australier!"

But Trinidad's comment, as well as his request, only brought forth the
oily smile that The Sidney Duck always smiled when any reference was
made to his game. It was his policy to fawn upon all and never permit
himself to think that an insult was intended. So he gathered in
Trinidad's money and gave him chips in return. For some seconds the men
played on without anything disturbing the game except the loud voice of
the caller of the wheel-of-fortune in the dance-hall. But the boys were
to hear something more from there besides, "Round goes the wheel!" For,
all at once there came to their ears the sounds of an altercation in
which it was not difficult to recognise the penetrating voice of Happy
Halliday.

"Now, git, you loafer!" he was saying in tones that left no doubt in the
minds of his friends that Happy was hot under the collar over something.

A shot followed.

"Missed, by the Lord Harry!" ejaculated Happy, deeply humiliated at his
failure to increase the mortuary record of