“Don't give me any of your canting talk, Reade,” snarled the gambler weakly.
“I'm not going to do so,” sighed Tom, rising. “I'm afraid it would be useless. Try to remember, Duff, that I allow myself to have no hard feelings against you. If you possibly can recover I shall be glad to hear that you've done so.”
Then Tom stepped over to Dr. Furniss' side, whispering to him:
“Doc, you'll see to it that some clergyman is called, won't you? Any clergyman that is the most likely to reach the heart and the soul of a hardened fellow like Jim Duff.”
Dr. Furniss nodded. Men appeared with an old door that was to be used as a stretcher. On this the gambler was placed, and the physician gave him such immediate attention as could be supplied on the sidewalk, for Jim Duff had been shot through the right lung. Then the bearers lifted the door, bearing the gambler back to the now gloomy Mansion House, the doctor following. Ashby, who had been strangely quiet after the shooting, was taken to the local police station and placed in a cell.
Just after the two had been taken care of, and while the crowd still lingered, a young man pushed his way through to the center of the crowd.
“I heard that Jim Duff had returned to town,” began the young man. The speaker was Clarence Farnsworth, the foolish young easterner who had been sadly fleeced by the gambler.
“Yes; Duff came back,” said Mr. Hawkins, quietly.
“Where is he?” asked Farnsworth. “I must leave in the morning, and I owe Duff seven hundred dollars. I want to pay it to him.”
“Money you lost gambling with Duff?” questioned Hawkins.