Kelley went away with a distinct feeling of friendliness toward the youngster, whose appearance was quite unlike the ordinary gambler. He seemed not merely bored, but disgusted with his trade, and Kelley said to himself: "That lad has a story to tell. He's no ordinary robber."
The next afternoon he met the youth on the street. "Much obliged for your tip last night. The game looked all right to me."
"It was all right," replied the gambler. "I didn't mean that it was crooked. But I hate to see a good man lose his money as you were sure to do."
"I thought you meant the wheel was 'fixed.'"
"Oh no. It's straight. I call a fair game. But I knew your run of luck couldn't last and"—he hesitated a little—"I'd kinda taken a fancy to you."
"Well, that's funny, too," replied Kelley. "I went over to play your machine because I kind of cottoned to you. I reckon we're due to be friends. My name's Kelley—Tall Ed the boys call me."
"Mine is Morse—Fred Morse. I came out here with a grub-stake, lost it, and, being out of a job, fell into rolling the marble for a living. What are you—a miner?"
"I make a bluff at mining a leased claim up here, but I'll admit I'm nothing but a wandering cow-puncher—a kind of mounted hobo. I have an itch to keep moving. I've been here a year and I'm crazy to straddle a horse and ride off into the West. I know the South and East pretty well—so the open country for me is off there where the sun goes down." His voice had a touch of poetry in it, and the other man, though he felt the bigness of the view, said:
"I never was on a horse in my life, and I don't like roughing it. But I like you and I wish you'd let me see something of you. Where are you living?"
"Mostly up at my mine—but I have a room down here at the Boston House. I pick up my meals anywhere."