“Thank you,” said Roderick coldly. And the two friends resumed their walk toward Brig Young’s saloon.
“I don’t mind telling you,” remarked Grant, “that Grady is the most pompous, arrogant and all-round hated man in this mining camp.”
“He looks the part,” replied Roderick, and they both laughed.
A minute later they were seated in a cosy little restaurant. Ample justice was done to the succulent Wyoming porterhouse, and cigars were lighted over the cups of fragrant coffee that completed the meal. Then the young men resumed their peregrinations pursuant to the programme of visiting Brig Young’s place, certified by Grant Jones to be one of the sights of the town.
The saloon proved to be an immense room with a bar in the corner near the entrance. Roulette tables, faro lay-outs and a dozen poker tables surrounded with feverish players were all running full blast, while half a hundred men were standing around waiting to take the place of any player who went broke or for any reason dropped out of the game.
“I guess nearly all the gambling is done here, isn’t it?” asked Roderick.
“Not by a big sight. There are eighteen joints of this kind, and they are all running wide open and doing business all the time.”
“When do they close?” inquired Roderick.
“They never close,” replied Grant. “Brig Young boasts that he threw the key away when this place opened, and the door has never been locked since.”
As they spoke their attention was attracted to one corner of the gaming room. Seven players were grouped around a table, in the centre of which was stacked a pile of several thousand dollars in gold pieces. Grant and Roderick strolled over.