But neither Melvin nor Varrell seemed to appreciate the joke.
“And that’s the way you got the rascal to give back the money?” asked Melvin, aghast.
“Yes, why not?” said Tompkins. “Tar the devil with his own stick!”
Varrell looked at Melvin, and Melvin looked at Varrell, and neither knew what to reply.
“How could you do it?” said Melvin, at last. “Don’t you know that it’s totally against all rules? They’d fire you without a moment’s notice, if they knew you played.”
“They won’t know it,” said Tompkins, coolly. “Bosworth isn’t going to tell them, and I’m not and you’re not. Besides, I don’t play. This was only a special emergency.”
“But how could you do it?” repeated Varrell, who considered the practical side, as Melvin the moral. “Bosworth must be an old hand at the game.”
Tompkins was standing by the door which Melvin had long since abandoned. He turned on the threshold, and holding his head tightly framed between jamb and door, he answered with a patronizing air: “Oh, Bosworth plays a pretty good game for a tenderfoot. But poker? Why, they teach it in the public schools in Butte!”
A Corner in Sands’s Room.