"Don't do anything—he'd hate you if you did."
After a week or ten days he called on Pierson and, seating himself at the table, began to shuffle a pack of cards. He looked tired.
"I never saw cards until I was fifteen," he said.
"At home they thought them one of the devil's worst devices—we had a real devil in our house."
"So did we," said Pierson.
"But not a rip-snorter like ours—they don't have him in cities, or even in towns, any more. I've seen ours lots of times after the lights were out—saw him long after I'd convinced myself in daylight that he didn't exist. But I never saw him so close as the night of the day I learned to play casino."
"Did you learn in the stable?" asked Pierson.
"That's where I learned, and mother slipped up behind me—I didn't know what was coming till I saw the look in the other boy's face. Then—" Pierson left the rest to imagination.
"I learned in the hay-loft—my sister and my cousin Ed and I. One of the farm-hands taught us. The cards were so stained we could hardly see the faces. That made them look the more devilish. And a thunder-storm came up and the lightning struck a tree a few rods from the barn."
"Horrible!" exclaimed Pierson. "I'll bet you fell to praying."