“But I'm showing you this one. It's a pipe.”
“No, you're not, Smoke. It's a pipe-dream. I'm asleep. Bimeby I'll wake up, an' build the fire, an' start breakfast.”
“Well, my unbelieving friend, there's the dust. Heft it.”
So saying, Smoke tossed the bulging gold-sack upon his partner's knees. It weighed thirty-five pounds, and Shorty was fully aware of the crush of its impact on his flesh.
“It's real,” Smoke hammered his point home.
“Huh! I've saw some mighty real dreams in my time. In a dream all things is possible. In real life a system ain't possible. Now, I ain't never been to college, but I'm plum justified in sizin' up this gamblin' orgy of ourn as a sure-enough dream.”
“Hamilton's 'Law of Parsimony,'” Smoke laughed.
“I ain't never heard of the geezer, but his dope's sure right. I'm dreamin', Smoke, an' you're just snoopin' around in my dream an' tormentin' me with system. If you love me, if you sure do love me, you'll just yell, 'Shorty! Wake up!' An' I'll wake up an' start breakfast.”
The third night of play, as Smoke laid his first bet, the game-keeper shoved fifteen dollars back to him.
“Ten's all you can play,” he said. “The limit's come down.”