“That’s your tip, Fred,” said Tom, turning to the young man Bill had noticed before. “On the run now!”
The young man called Fred seemed to need no further invitation.
Tom now joined Bill. From one of the drawers of the desk at which the proprietor had been seated, Tom brought to light an ugly-looking Colt.
“Let’s move ’em toward the rear!” suggested Tom. “Some of ’em are showing signs of restlessness.”
“All right!” acquiesced Bill.
So, at the point of the revolvers, everyone in the room was lined up against the rear wall. The older men, who had seen better days, appeared indifferent to it all. To them life meant very little. Spirit, youth, ambition, success had long passed them by. They still clung to the vain hope of winning something out of sheer habit. Stock gambling, like opium, oftentimes urges on its victim until the sands of life slowly ebb away. The younger no-accounts scowled darkly. But what could they do? Those two lads were too business-like to attempt anything rash.
“Say,” growled the proprietor, addressing Tom, “can’t we call this quits?”
“Nothing doing!” was the curt reply, both boys at once becoming more alert that ever.
“Aw, take a joke,” pleaded the man. “I’ll square it with you. Honest I will.”