Beecher, surprised, nodded and made his way toward the end that had been converted into a frontier saloon, where, behind enormous mustaches, he recognized the long features of his fellow lodger.
"What'll y'have?" said Lynch, in hoarse accents. Then, perceiving that he was recognized, he drew Beecher aside and said anxiously:
"You owe me fifty, Ted; we pulled it out. Go over and stake it at the table for me, if you've got it."
"Sorry," said Beecher, eying him critically and resolving to lie.
"Oh, well," said Lynch philosophically, "it'll look big as a house to-morrow."
"Are you cleaned out, Bo?" said Beecher anxiously.
"Oh, no; I'm worth thousands," said Lynch, with a grin, "until the market opens to-morrow."
"Tough luck."
"Steve Plunkett's worse—he's got to negotiate his gold fillings, they say."
A party came up, clamoring for attention, and Lynch hastened to the rescue. Beecher continued curiously toward the faro table, admiring with an admiration tinged with compassion the sang froid of the losers, who in a desperate attempt to recover the imminent loss of the morrow, were staking sums that made the spectators raise their eyebrows in amazement.