"Been sort o' sizin' you up lately, and I put it up that you're out o' luck. Does that call the turn?"
"I don't know how that concerns you," said Jeffard, with a sudden access of dull resentment.
"No more do I; but that's neither here nor yonder. You're down on your luck, ain't you?"
Jeffard nodded. "Call it that, if you like."
"Thought so. Broke most of the time, I reckon?"
"Yes; most of the time."
"Jes' so. Well, I'm goin' to put you on to a soft snap. I know all about you—who you are, where you come from, and all the rest. You've been playin' to lose right along, and now I'm goin' to give you a tip so you can play to win ever' time. See?"
Jeffard came out of his abstraction sufficiently to wonder what the man was driving at. "Make it short," he rejoined curtly.
Grim leaned back in his pivot-chair, and his hard face wrinkled under an evil smile.
"Don't be in a rush. Game runs all night, and you'll have plenty of time to go and blow in whatever you've got after I get through with you. Or, if you can't wait, go and blow it first, and we'll talk business afterwards."