asked, expectantly.

The foreman laughed: "It's seldom too late for that," he replied.

"Good enough!" cried his host. "What shall it be this time--pinochle or
crib?"

The foreman slowly closed his eyes as he replied: "Either suits me--this
feed has made me plumb easy to please. Why, I'd even play casino to-night!"

"Well, what do you say to crib?" asked the sheriff. "You licked me so bad
at it the last time you were here that I hanker to get revenge."

"Well, I don't blame you for wanting to get it, but I'll tell you right
now that you won't, for I can lick the man that invented crib to-night,"
laughed the foreman. "Bring out your cards."

Shields placed the cards on the table and arranged things where they would
be handy while his friend shuffled the pack.

The foreman pushed the cards toward his host: "There you are--low deals
as usual, I suppose."

"Oh, you might as well go ahead and deal," grumbled the sheriff
good-naturedly. "I don't remember ever cutting low enough for you--by
George! A five!"

Blake picked up the cards and started to deal, but the sheriff stopped him.

"Hey! You haven't cut yet!" Shields cried, putting his hand on the cards.
"What are you doing, anyhow?"

Blake laughed with delight: "Well, anybody that can't cut lower than a
five hadn't ought to play the game. What's the use of wasting time?"

"Well, you never mind about the time--you go ahead and beat me," cried
the sheriff. "Of all the nerve!"

Blake picked up the cards again: "Do you want to cut again?" he asked.

"Not a bit of it! That five stands!"

"Well, how would a four do?" asked the foreman, lifting his hand. "It's a
three!" he exulted. "All that time wasted," he said.

"You go to blazes," pleasantly replied the sheriff as he sorted his hand.
"This ain't so bad for you, not at all bad; you could have done worse,
but I doubt it." He discarded, cut, and Blake turned a six.

"Seven," called Shields as he played.

"Seventeen," replied Blake, playing a queen.

"No you don't, either," grinned the sheriff. "You can play that four later
if you want to, but not now on twenty-seven. Call it twenty-five," he
said, playing an eight.

Blake carefully scanned his hand and finally played the four, grumbling a
little as his friend laughed.

"Thirty-one--first blood," remarked the sheriff, dropping the deuce.

While he pegged his points Blake suddenly laughed.

"Say, Jim," he said, "before I forget it I want to tell you a jok