“I am glad of that,” I responded, “as I don’t intend telling you.”
With all his swagger I could see that his crest fell a little at the general burst of laughter that my somewhat bizarre remark had called forth.
“Come, stranger,” he said, in a half-deprecatory, half-spiteful tone, “you needn’t a be so short-horned about it, I guess; I didn’t mean no offence—but you know you left us so suddintly—never mind—’taint no business o’ mine. You’re going to take a hand at faro, ain’t you?”
“Perhaps.”
“Wal, then, it appears a nice game. I’m jest trying it for the first time myself. It’s all chance, I believe—jest like odds and evens. I’m a winnin’ anyhow.”
He turned his face to the bank, and appeared to busy himself in arranging his bets.
A fresh deal had commenced, and the players, drawn off for a moment by our conversation, became once more engaged in what was of greater interest to them—the little money-heaps upon the cards.
Of course, both Chorley and Hatcher recognised me; but they had restricted their recognitions to a friendly nod, and a glance that plainly said—
“He’s here! all right! he’ll not go till he has tried to get back his hundred dollars—he’ll have a shy at the bank—no fear but he will.”
If such were their thoughts they were, not far astray. My own reflections were as follows:—