“Ace is sure shootin’ ’em high to-night. I bet he’s lost over a thousand,” he heard a man say.
“It must come easy to him, because he lost more than that last night,” another laughed.
Allen wandered over to the poker table. Ace Cutts’ face was sullen. Ace was a poor gambler, for he became angry and forced his luck. He bluffed wildly and tried to outdraw the other players. Allen watched his chips melt away until the last one was gone. Ace leaped to his feet and went over to Bill Anderson.
“I’m busted, Bill; let me have five hundred,” he demanded.
Anderson’s face grew flinty, his eyes hard.
“And you’ll pay me back out of the sixty a month the judge gives you,” he said with a harsh laugh.
Ace Cutts’ dark face flushed; his eyes grew stormy. He leaned forward as if to whisper something, but Anderson turned away. Ace glared at him, then jammed on his hat and went out to the bar.
“Where the hell does he get his money?” some one asked Anderson.
The political boss shrugged.
“Maybe he signs the judge’s name to papers,” he suggested.