"I dropped into a joint called The Reception, and who'd I see playing 'bank' but 'Single Out' Wilmer, the worst gambler on the river. Mounted police had him on the woodpile in Dawson, then tied a can on him. At the same table was a nice, tender Philadelphia squab, 'bout fryin' size, and while I was watching, Wilmer pulls down a bet belonging to it. That's an old game.
"'Pardon me,' says the broiler; 'you have my checks.'
"'What?' growls 'Single Out;' 'I knowed this game before you quit nursin', Bright Eyes. I can protect my own bets.'
"'That's right,' chimes the dealer, who I seen was 'Curly' Budd,
Wilmer's pardner.
"'Lord!' thinks I, 'there's a pair to draw to.'
"'Do you really think you had ought to play this? It's a man's game,' says Wilmer nasty.
"I expected to see the youngster dog it. Nothin' of the kind.
"'That's my bet!' he says again, and I noticed something dry in his voice, like the rustle of silk.
"Single Out just looks black and snarls at the dealer.
"'Turn the cards!'