“‘Supposed to be’ is good! You’ll have to find somebody else, Willie. Your twenty doesn’t tempt me. I’m sore because these locals got cold feet, and I’d be poor company, anyhow. I might growl.”
“Goodness!” said Willie. “If you didn’t, everybody would think you sick. You’re always sore about something, you old groucher. Tell you what I think, I have a notion that you’re afraid of me. You’re not willing to give me a chance to get even. That’s a mean disposition.”
But he could not taunt Kennedy into playing. Nevertheless, in time he found three men who were willing to sit into a game for a while—Buzzsaw Stover, Warwhoop Clinker, and South-paw Pope. They followed him up to his room, where the quartette peeled off their coats, rolled up their sleeves, and seated themselves around a table upon which Willie tossed a well-thumbed pack of cards.
“Too bad we couldn’t find one more man,” said Touch. “Five players make a better game than four. Shall we use chips?”
“Nix,” said Warwhoop. “Let’s play with real money, and then there won’t be any disagreement and chewing the rag over settling up. Every time chips are used the banker finds himself short. Cold cash is better, and out in this country there’s always plenty of coin floating around. I’ve got a pocket full of chicken feed.”
“Haven’t you better cards than these, Willie?” asked South-paw, looking the pack over disdainfully.
“Dunno,” was the answer. “Mebbe I have in my clothes somewhere. I’ll see.”
Touch opened the door of a closet at the back of the room and went through a suit of clothes hanging inside that closet.
“Nothing doing,” he called. “Those are all the cards I have. Perhaps I’d better go out and get a new pack.”
“Aw, forget it!” rasped Buzzsaw. “These’ll do. Come on, let’s get down to business.”