"You're a sentimentalist," Stannard rejoined with a smile. "I don't know that a crooked game was indicated. But let's get our drinks."
They went to the bar and when Deering picked up his glass he said, "Good luck to the kid and a quick recovery!" He drained the glass and looked at Stannard hard. "When Jimmy needs a help out, I'm his man."
Stannard said nothing, but lighted a cigarette.
In the morning a young doctor arrived from Calgary and was some time in Jimmy's room.
"I reckon your luck was pretty good," he remarked. "After three or four days you can get up and go about—" He paused and added meaningly: "But you want to go slow."
Jimmy's face was white, but the blood came to his skin.
"I'd begun to think something like that," he said in a languid voice.
The doctor nodded. "Since you could stand for the knock you got, your body's pretty sound, but I get a hint of strain and the cure's moral. You want to cut out hard drinks, strong cigars, and playing cards all night."
"Do the symptoms indicate that I do play cards all night?"
"I own I was helped by inquiries about your habits," said the doctor, smiling. "If you like a game, try pool, with boys like yourself, and bet fifty cents. I don't know about your bank-roll, but your heart and nerve won't stand for hundred-dollar pots when your antagonists are men."