question evidently
had been settled in the minds of the men fully in favor of the little
Half-a-pint. Few understood these things at all, fewer still cared to go
into particulars at this time, and the question would keep till they had
more leisure and less whisky.

Finally, the hatchet-faced man went round and sat down opposite the man
who sat behind the little silver faro-box by the pine-table, and began
to whisper in his ear. The good-natured genius, half-gambler,
half-miner, who had played the little prank with the salmon and
gold-dust, had had a dull night of it, and most like even for that
reason was a little out of humor. At all events he did not answer at
once, but set down his little silver box, and, taking up his cards,
began to spin them one by one over the heads of the men, or through the
crowd as it opened, back at the old bull-dog that lay on the bunk on the
bags of gold under the blankets, and half whistling to himself as he did
so.

The hatchet-faced man, fearing the man had forgotten his presence and
his revelation, leaned over again and began to whisper and to count on
his fingers.

Then he looked sharp at the gambler and began again; "Hits my 'pinion
that it's that boy, Billie Piper."

"How many months did you say?" asked the gambler at last.

"Seven or eight at the furthest."

"And how many had it ought to be?"

"Twelve!" And the smile that was sweet and devilish played about the
thin blue lips below the sharp and meddlesome nose.

"And are you a family man?"

"No."

"And you say she's bilked us?"

"Yes."

"You're a darn'd infernal liar!" The gambler rose as he said this,
snatched up his silver box and dashed it into the teeth of Hatchet-face.
And he, coward as he was, put up his hands and held them to his mouth
while the blood ran down between his fingers.

"I don't keer, Judge, I don't keer, if I broke every tooth in his head.
I don't 'low no white-livered son of a gun to go about a-talking about a
woman like that."

Then the gambler, walking off, said to those around him in a lower tone,
"It don't take no twelve months nohow. Now there's the yaller cat;
'bout four litters in a year. Twelve months be blowed! That's an old
woman's story. Then that's in Missoury, anyhow, and what's the climate
of Missoury got to do with Californy, I'd like to know? No, gentlemen;
some apples gits ripe soon, and some don't git ripe till frost comes.
Them's things, gentlemen, as we don't know nothing