Cole smiled and made a sizable bet, but there was no opposition, so he yawned and raked in the pot.
“Didja ever try sleepin’ for that?” asked Johnny. “Yuh might dislocate yore jaw and then⸺”
Johnny had glanced toward the door, where a man was coming in, and he did not finish the sentence. The newcomer was of medium height, dressed in an old suit of store clothes, with an old felt hat on his head, disclosing a tinge of gray hair at his temples.
His face was rather long, deeply lined, and his greenish-gray eyes were as hard as agates. He came slowly, unblinking.
“My Gawd, if it ain’t Len Ayres!” blurted Johnny. “Len, you old son-of-a-sea-cook!”
Harry Cole jerked around so quickly that his elbow swept some of his stacked chips to the floor as Johnny kicked back his chair and arose to greet Len Ayres. Smoky got to his feet, a grin on his lips, waiting for a chance to shake hands with the man who did not smile.
“By golly, it’s good to see yuh ag’in, Len,” declared Johnny.
“It’s—it’s kinda good to be back, Johnny. Hello, Smoky. Still the same as ever, eh? Hello, Sam,” he nodded to Sam Lytel, of the OK outfit, and turned to Harry Cole.
“Changed yore occupation, eh?”
“Hello, Len,” said Harry hoarsely. “Yes, I’ve changed. Went out of office two years ago, you know.”