For a full minute Three-Ace Artie eyed the other in silence—then he laughed shortly.
“I don't know which of us is the bigger damn fool—you trying to buy a through ticket to hell; or yours truly for what I'm going to do now! Maybe you have learned your lesson, maybe you haven't; but anyway I am going to take the chance. I'm not here to preach, but I'll push a little personal advice out of long experience your way. The booze and the pasteboards won't get you anywhere—except into the kind of mess you are up against now. If you are hankering for more of it, go to it—that's all. It's your hunt!”
He flung the Kid's poke suddenly upon the table, and piled the gold eagles beside it.
A flush crept into the Kid's cheeks. He leaned further forward, staring helplessly, now at Three-Ace Artie, now at the money on the table.
“W-what do you mean?” he stammered.
“It isn't very hard to guess, is it?” said Three-Ace Artie quietly. “Here's your money—but there's just one little condition tied to it. I can't afford to let the impression get around that I'm establishing any precedents—see? And if the boys heard of this they'd think I was suffering from softening of the brain! You get away from here without saying anything to anybody—and stay away. Bixley, one of the boys, is going over to the next camp this afternoon—and you go with him.”
“You—you're giving me back the money?” faltered the Kid.
“Well, it sort of looks that way,” smiled Three-Ace Artie.
A certain dignity came to the Kid—and he held out his hand.
“You're a white man,” he said huskily. “But I can't accept it. I took it pretty hard down there perhaps, it seemed to get me all of a sudden when the booze went out; but I'm not all yellow. You won it—I can't take it back. It's yours.”