“Yes,” said Welch, “he is a friend of mine, and he is all right, gentlemen. I will speak for him.”
“It makes too many players at one table,” said one, who seemed to be something of a stranger to the others. “We have enough here now.”
“He isn’t one of the gang,” thought Frank, immediately. “He and Jack are the birds they are plucking.”
“Do the others object?” demanded Bunker, aggressively. “Look here; I’ve got money to burn, and I’m looking for an open grate to burn it in.”
Then he took out a roll of bills with one hand and jingled some bright yellow pieces with the other.
“Gold!” exclaimed a player. “Where did you get so much of that stuff? Gold isn’t plenty in these parts.”
“Well, I’ve got this, and you may have it—if you can win it,” said Bunker, with drunken swagger. “Shall I come in?”
“What do you say, Mr. Diamond?” asked Welch, speaking to Jack.
“Dunno’s I care a rap,” said the Virginian, thickly. “His money’s good’s anybody’s.”
Frank started, astounded.