“I don’t want endowments or bonds, but the cheapest form of life insurance you have, and——”
“Straight life is what you want.”
“Straight life it is, then, and I will pay you for the two years or say, to make it sure, for two years and a half down, when you bring me the papers.”
Thus it was that with part of the money he had won, Pony Rowell insured his life for $100,000, and with another part he paid his board and lodging for a year ahead at the Metropolitan Hotel.
The remainder he kept to speculate on.
During the year that followed he steadily refused to play with Bert Ragstock, and once or twice they nearly had a quarrel about it—that is as near as Pony could come to having a row with anybody, for quarrelling was not in his line. If he had lived in a less civilized part of the community Pony might have shot, but as it was quarrels never came to anything, therefore he did not indulge in any.
“A year from the date of our last game? What nonsense it is waiting all that time. You play with others, why not with me? Think of the chances we are losing,” complained Bert.
“We will have a game then that will make up for all the waiting,” answered Rowell.
At last the anniversary came and when the hour struck that ushered it in Pony Rowell and Bert Ragstock sat facing each other, prepared to resume business on the old stand.
“Ah,” said Bert, rubbing his hands, “it feels good to get opposite you once more. Pony, you’re a crank. We might have had a hundred games like this during the past year, if there wasn’t so much superstition about you.”