In the next deal he caught nothing and promptly went to sleep again. They woke him up in time to look at his next hand, and that failed also to interest him. In the following deal, however, he caught three sevens.
It had been his ante, and the money had been put up out of his pile without waking him, but even under existing circumstances no one cared to go so far as to play his hand for him, the more especially as they all had pretty good cards and saw his raise when he made it two dollars to play.
Catching the fourth seven in the draw, he made good on two raises that had been made before it came to him, and threw in five dollars more. Thorp and Wilson both called for their piles, one having a flush and the other a full.
Just what might have happened in a few hands more it is impossible to say, for the whistle of the Prairie Belle startled the crowd as she steamed up to the levee, and Long Mike staggered to his feet, stuffing his winnings in his pockets as he rose. Neither whiskey nor poker was potent to hold him when there was business to be done.
As he stepped unsteadily into the open air, Sam heard him asking of the wide, wide world, “Where is that man Gallagher?”
V
STUMPY’S DILEMMA
The only thing stirring on the levee at Brownsville on Sunday morning, usually, was a small dog belonging to Stumpy. It was of record that when Stumpy arrived at Brownsville with his dog Peter, bringing their entire earthly possessions wrapped in a large red handkerchief, Peter came across the gangplank first, being in hot pursuit of a rat. The rat escaped, finding its way into a crevice near the edge of the water, and the most of Peter’s spare time for the two years that had elapsed since then had been spent near that crevice. No sign of the rat had ever been discovered, but Peter’s faith was abiding.
It was possibly characteristic of the breed of Peter, which was considered in Brownsville to be some sort of terrier—and it was certainly characteristic of Peter that he did not sit down by the crevice to watch for that rat, but ran back and forth continually, barking, meanwhile, with cheerful disregard of the effort involved. He did not wag his tail, being possessed of a totally insufficient amount of tail to be wagged. “Sure his tail was never cut off,” Stumpy used to say, “it was drove in.” But he wagged the entire hinder portion of his body, as he ran, with an enthusiasm that frequently sent two of his legs high in the air.
While he was engaged in this fashion one otherwise peaceful Sabbath day, his master appeared in view, and the two were soon in conversation.
“Thim two spalpeens that kim off the boat last night, I’m thinkin’, is goin’ to do up the town, I do’ know,” said Stumpy, whose habit it was to discuss matters with Peter when he found them too difficult to understand easily.