“They’re queer cusses,” he said. “One of ’em came in last Christmas that was a walkin’ woolen store, ’n’ when he tried to sell mittens and stockin’s by the hundred pair, they just naturally locked him up. But he come by ’em honest, after all. You know,” he explained, kindly, “these lumber-jacks can’t get any money while they are in the woods, but they can trade at the company’s store there, ’n’ have it checked against their time. ’N’ they will play poker. So they used mittens ’n’ stockings for chips. ’N’ this fellow had got most of ’em. He told me,” said Mr. Kipley, with intense enjoyment, “that he won eleven hundred pair of mittens on three aces. The other fellow had kings. ’N’ he bluffed forty pair of stockings outen a greenhorn on ace high.
“You play poker?” he inquired, for young Carrington’s laugh had been deliciously prompt.
The boy nodded.
“Enough to appreciate a good poker story, anyway,” he said. “That’s a corker.”
Mr. Kipley wiped his mouth with his handkerchief to hide a pleased smile.
“D’you know,” he said, “Mis’ Kipley can’t see a thing in that story?” His tone suggested a puzzled commiseration.
“Oh, well,” the boy said, gayly, “it’s hardly a woman’s story, you know.” And he showed his white teeth in so gleeful a smile that it warmed Mr. Kipley’s heart.
It resulted in his making some inquiries on a subject that had roused his interest earlier in the day.
“Paris is gettin’ kind of run down, ain’t it?” he asked, cautiously.
“Why, no,” said the boy; “it’s getting built up. What made you think so?”