"So I understand."
Miller's frown deepened. "Well, then, beat it! Saloons are masculine gender and—"
"I'm not a dance-hall girl, I'm a dealer," the other broke in.
"You're a—WHAT?" Ben's jaw dropped; he stared curiously at the speaker. She was pretty, very pretty, in a still, dignified way; she had a fine, intelligent face and she possessed a poise, a carriage, that challenged attention.
"A dealer? What the deuce can you deal?" he managed to ask.
"Anything—the bank, the wheel, the tub, the cage—"
Disapproval returned to the man's countenance; there was an admonitory sternness to his voice when he said: "It ain't very nice to see a kid like you in a place like this. I don't know where you learned that wise talk, but—cut it out. Go home and behave yourself, sister. If you're broke, I'll stake you; so'll anybody, for that matter."
His visitor stirred impatiently. "Let's stick to business. I don't want a loan. I'm a dealer and I want work."
Morris Best bustled out of the adjoining room at the moment, and, noting a feminine figure in this forbidden territory, he exclaimed:
"Hey, miss! Theater's in the rear."