“Here’s to him, as you say, but he ain’t got a chance. That Cheerio duke ain’t no amachoor.”
Alberta, as all the world is beginning to know, is a gambler’s paradise. In this great boom land, where every day brings its new discoveries of gold, oil, coal, silver, salts, platinum and all the minerals this world of ours hides within herself, one tosses a penny on life itself. From all parts of the world come people whose lives and hopes are dependent upon games of chance, be they of the board, a pack of cards, the stock market, the oil fields or the great gamble of the land. Gambling is instinctive and intuitive in Alberta. A chance is taken on anything. The man in the city and the man upon the land throwing the dice of fate upon the soil are equally concerned in gambling.
Cheerio’s proposition, therefore, and the way in which it was rumoured he continued to beat the veteran chess player appealed to the sporting sense of the country. It was not long before money was up and bets were on the players. News of the game swept down finally to Calgary, and a sporting editor dispatched a reporter upon the job. The reporter liked his assignment first rate, since it included a trip into the foothills and an indefinite leave of absence. He was not, however, received with open arms at O Bar O.
Hilda, when he revealed the fact that he was a reporter, snapped the screen door closed, and only after the most diplomatic argument on the part of the newspaper man finally consented to announce his presence at O Bar O to her father.
“Just tell him,” said the reporter, “that I only want a word or two from him, and I’ll not print a line that he doesn’t approve of.”
To this perfectly amicable message, P. D. (invisible but plainly heard shouting his explosive reply) returned:
“No, G— D— it. I’ll see no snooping, spying, G— D— reporter. I’ll have none of ’em on my place. I’ll have ’em thrown off. This is no public place, and I’ll have no G— D— reporter trespassing upon my G— D— privacy.”
Hilda, back at the screen door:
“My father says he doesn’t want to see you, and if I were you, I’d beat it, because we’ve got some pretty husky men on this place and you don’t look any too strong. There’s no telling what might happen to you, you know.”
“Will you just ask your father, then, if he will give me, through you, a statement as to the chances of Canada winning the World Championship, either through him or his present opponent. What we are chiefly interested in—that is to say, the readers of the Calgary Blizzard—is whether or not we are to have the Cup for Canada. It doesn’t matter whether Mr. McPherson or his opponent gets it for us.”