“Yes,” I said. “I mean he’s sick, but he’s not my father. He is a big Eastern capitalist I’m escorting West on business.”
“Put me next—I can offer him some great chances,” said another man.
“I’m afraid he is feeling too bad to talk business—and he is very notional in the matter of strangers. Don’t say anything to him; leave it to me.” I was obliged to say something about the judge and to block them from bothering him, if I could, for I knew he would not be contented with one inspection of me at my devilish and dangerous occupation. “Don’t pay any attention to his actions,” I advised. “He’s feeling mighty sick—a long ride makes him sort of seasick.”
I was glad I had planted something with the men, for the judge kept coming and sticking his head between the curtains and making strange noises. He went at me in good earnest when he had me at table in the dining-car.
“How dare you throw away my money on gamblers?”
“I haven’t done so, Judge Kingsley.”
“I saw you doing it in that dirty den of smoke and vice.”
“You saw me playing cards, I’ll admit. I had to do something to keep from going crazy.”
“Tossing away my money! Gambling my dollars—”
“Just a moment, sir! That money is a part of my profits and I consider it a common pot for both of us. I know how to play poker. I have added forty-five dollars to it.”