“Hello yourself.”
My Lady and he seemed to know each other. 115
“How goes it to-night, Bob?”
“Slow. There’s no nerve or money in this camp any more. She’s a dead one.”
“I’ll not have Benton slandered,” My Lady gaily retorted. “We’ll buck your game, Bob. But you must be easy on us. We’re green yet.”
Bob shot a quick glance at me—in one look had read me from hat to boots. He had shrewder eyes than their first languor intimated.
“Pleased to accommodate you, I’m sure,” he answered. “The greenies stand as good a show at this board as the profesh.”
“Will you play for a dollar?” she challenged.
“I’ll play for two bits, to-night. Anything to start action.” He twisted his mouth with ready chagrin. “I’m about ripe to bet against myself.”
She fumbled at her reticule, but I was beforehand.