“Cigars it shall be, then. But I’ll pay.” And to my nod the bartender set out a box, from which we selected at twenty-five cents each. With my own “seegar” cocked up between my lips, and my revolver adequately heavy at my belt, I suffered the guidance of the importunate Jim.
We wended leisurely among games of infinite variety: keno, rondo coolo, poker, faro, roulette, monte, chuck-a-luck, wheels of fortune—advertised, some, by their barkers, but the better class (if there is such a distinction) presided over by remarkably quiet, white-faced, nimble-fingered, steady-eyed gentry in irreproachable garb running much to white shirts, black pantaloons, velvet waistcoats, and polished boots, and diamonds and gold chains worn unaffectedly; low-voiced gentry, these, protected, it would appear, mainly by their lookouts perched at their sides with eyes alert to read faces and to watch the play.
We had by no means completed the tour, interrupted by many jests and nods exchanged between 110 Jim and sundry of the patrons, when we indeed met My Lady. She detached herself, as if cognizant of our approach, from a little group of four or five standing upon the floor; and turned for me with hand outstretched, a gratifying flush upon her spirited face.
“You are here, then?” she greeted.
I made a leg, with my best bow, not omitting to remove hat and cigar, while agreeably conscious of her approving gaze.
“I am here, madam, in the Big Tent.”
Her small warm hand acted as if unreservedly mine, for the moment. About her there was a tingling element of the friendly, even of the intimate. She was a haven in a strange coast.
“Told you I’d find him, didn’t I?” Jim asserted—the bystanders listening curiously. “There he was, lookin’ as lonesome as a two-bit piece on a poker table in a sky-limit game. So we had a drink and a seegar, and been makin’ the grand tower.”
“You got your outfit, I see,” she smiled.
“Yes. Am I correct?”