"I'm ready, gentlemen," said Peabody, with alacrity.
"It's a great deal easier earning money this way," he reflected, regarding complacently the two ounces of dust which represented his winnings, "than washing dirt out of the river." And the poor dupe congratulated himself that a new way of securing the favors of fortune had been opened to him.
The reader will easily guess that Lawrence Peabody did not win the next game, nor will he be surprised to hear that when he left the saloon his pockets were empty.
"Better luck next time, stranger," said Jack, carelessly. "Take a drink before you go?"
Peabody accepted the invitation, and soon after staggered into the tent occupied by Tom and his friend Ferguson.
"What's the matter, Mr. Peabody?" asked Tom. "Are you sick?"
"Yes," answered Peabody, sinking to the floor. "Something's the matter with my head. I don't feel well."
"Have you been to the saloon, Mr. Peabody?" asked Ferguson.
"Yes," answered the Bostonian.
"And while there you drank some of their vile whiskey, didn't you?"