"It won't take you long to learn. I only run one big game now because I can't trust no one to deal another—but I could get plenty of play on one if I had it goin'. I figure that the boys all like you, an' you'd be a good card. They all know you're square an' I'd get a good play on your layout.
What do you say? It's a damn sight better than mushin' out there in the cold."
"What will you pay?"
"Well, how would five hundred a month, an' five percent of the winnings of the layout do? You wouldn't need to come on till around nine in the evening, and stay till the play was through. I'll throw in your supper, and dinner at midnight, and we won't keep any bar tab. You're welcome to what drinks you want—only you've got to keep sober when you're on shift."
Brent did not answer immediately. A couple of men came through the door in a whirl of flying snow, and he shivered slightly, as the blast of cold air struck him. Stoell was right, there would be a hell of a lot of grief out there on the long snow trail. "I guess I'll take you up on that," he said, "When do I start?"
"It'll take me a day or so to get rigged up. Let's make it day after tomorrow night. Meantime you can do your eating and drinking here—just make yourself at home. The boys'll be tickled when they hear the news—it'll spread around the camp pretty lively that you're dealing faro at Stoell's, and we'll get good play—see."
During the next two days Brent spent much time in Stoell's, drinking at the bar, and watching the preparation of the new layout over which he was to preside. And to him there, at different times came eight or ten of the sourdoughs of the Yukon,
each with a gruff offer of assistance, but carefully couched in words that could give no offense. "You'll be on yer feet agin, 'fore long. If you need any change in the meantime, just holler," imparted one. Said another: "Here, jest slip this poke in yer jeans. I ain't needin' it. Somethin'll turn up d'rectly, an' you can slip it back then." But Brent declined all offers, with thanks. And to each he explained that he had a job, and each, when he learned the nature of the job, either answered rather evasively, or congratulated him in terms that somehow seemed lacking in enthusiasm. Old Bettles was the only man to voice open disapproval: "Hell," he blurted, "Anyone c'n deal faro. Anyone c'n gamble with another man's money, an' eat another man's grub, an' drink another man's hooch. But, it's along the cricks an' the gulches you find the reg'lar he-man sourdoughs."
At the words of this oldest settler on the Yukon, Brent strangely took no offense. Rather he sought to excuse his choice of profession: "I'm only doing it till spring, then I'm going to hit into the hills, and when I come back we'll play them higher than ever," he explained. "I'm a little soft now and don't feel quite up to tackling the winter trail."
"Humph," grunted Bettles, "You won't be comin' back—because you ain't never goin' to go. If yer soft now, you'll be a damn sight softer agin spring. Dealin' from a box an' lappin' up hooch ain't a-goin' to put you in shape for to chaw moose-meat an'