One sees the traits of men as flashes of interiors are seen through revolving doors. It would have taken Bill Dunham an hour to put his impressions of Bergen and Puckett down with a pen, but his shrewd eye sized them up for an opinion in two seconds. That opinion was one that impelled Bill's hand to his hip pocket to feel for his wallet.
"Gentlemen," Bergen proposed after the formalities of introduction, "what do you say to a little drink?"
MacKinnon came from behind the counter with alacrity, his ready disposition apparently an expression of the inclination of all to the proposal. Major Simmons and Puckett led the way, Bill following between MacKinnon and Bergen, who kept his hand on the six-hundredth citizen's shoulder as if he meant to take no chance on his getting away and leaving the big thing—what it was Bill had no more notion than a rabbit—flat and a fizzle on their hands.
"You can mark this day with red ink in your book of life, Mr. Dunham," Bergen said, stepping high as they bore along the plank sidewalk toward the sign The Casino that projected toward the street from the front of a large, loose-jointed, barn-looking building a little way ahead.
"I don't git you," Bill confessed. "What in the dickens are you makin' all this fuss about?"
"My dear sir," with a slap, slap, on Bill's back, "you are our six-hundredth citizen!"
"I heard you say so before, but you can search me," Bill said.
"Under the state law, Mr. Dunham, a county is re-
