“Let him go to hell, then, an' you go, too!” growled out “Mexico,” who had for the greater part of the evening been playing in bad luck, but who had refused to quit, waiting for the turn.
“He's out here in the snow,” continued Shorty, “an' he's chokin' to death, an' we don't know what to do with him.”
The doctor looked up from his hand. “Put him in somewhere. I'll be along soon.”
“They won't let him in anywhere. They're all afraid, an' he's chokin' to death.”
The doctor turned down his cards. “What do you say? Choking to death?” He passed his hand over his eyes. His professional instinct began to assert itself.
“Yes,” continued Shorty. “There's somethin' wrong with him; he can't swallow. An' we can't git him in.”
The doctor pushed back his chair. “Here, men,” he said, “I'm going to quit.”
A chorus of oaths and imprecations greeted his proposal.
“You can't quit now!” growled “Mexico” fiercely, like a dog that is about to lose a bone. “You've got to give us a chance.”
“Well, here's your chance then,” cried the doctor. “Let's stop this tiddle-de-winks game. You can't have up more than a hundred apiece. I'll put my pile against your bets, there's three thousand if there's a dollar, and quit. Come on.”