“I told you!” he cried. “I’m feelin’ lucky!”
When he finally stopped, his winnings were the envy of many eyes.
“Set ’em up, Tinhorn! Everybody drink! Bring in the horses!”
Bedlam reigned. It was “Smithy this” and “Smithy that,” and it was all as the breath of life to Smith.
“Tinhorn”—he leaned heavily on the bar—“when I feels lucky like this, I makes it a rule to crowd my luck. Are you game for stud?”
The film which the lounger had mentioned seemed to cover Tinhorn’s eyes.
“I’m locoed to set agin such luck as yours, but I like to be sociable, and you don’t come often.”
“I likes a swift game,” said Smith, as he pulled a chair from the pine table. “Draw is good enough for kids and dudes, but stud’s the only play for men.”
“Now you’ve talked!” declared the admiring throng.
“Keep ’em movin’, Tinhorn! Deal ’em out fast.”