ing of his fortunes, he looked at Steve and said amiably:—
"How does bed strike you?"
I was beside their table, learning gradually that stud-poker has in it more of what I will call red pepper than has our Eastern game. The Virginian followed his own question:—
"Bed strikes me," he stated.
Steve feigned indifference. He was far more deeply absorbed in his bet and the American drummer than he was in this game; but he chose to take out a fat, florid gold watch, consult it elaborately, and remark, "It's only eleven."
"Yu' forget I'm from the country," said the black-headed guy. "The chickens have been roostin' a right smart while."
His sunny Southern accent was again strong. In that brief passage with Trampas it had been almost wholly absent. But different moods of the spirit bring different qualities of utterance—where a man comes by these naturally. The Virginian cashed in his checks.
"Awhile ago," said Steve, "you had won three months' salary."
"I'm still twenty dollars to the good," said the Virginian. "That's better than breaking a laig."
Again, in some voiceless, masonic way, most people in that saloon had become aware that something was in process of happening. Several left their games and came to the front by the bar.
"If he ain't in bed yet—" mused the Virginian.
"I'll find out," said I. And I hurried across to the dim sleeping room, happy to have a part in this.
