them to win!" Chris cried triumphantly to the man who got slapped, Schultz, who kept the cigar store outside which an ancient wooden Indian, symbol of the Gay Nineties, still held forth his pack of cheroots.
"You're just lucky, Chris. Another raise and you would have thrown the cards down," bantered Gordon, the sandy-whiskered little Scotchman, proprietor of the stationery shop next door to the car barn.
"Stop the gab and deal, Sandy," cut in the bearded Rankin, patriarch of the party, a retired tugboat captain.
"Ante up, gentlemen. The kitty craves nourishment," warned Le Duc, the portly French Canadian to whose little jewelry store Fifth Avenue dowagers brought their expensive watches for repair because of the uncanny skill that still lingered in his gnarled fingers and still keen eyes.
Speedy, still unnoticed by the cronies, intent upon their game, looked around the table with satisfaction. Ten players were taking part in the evening's diversion. Six or more others, either seated or standing over the shoulders of the participants, were watching the proceedings with keen interest. All were solid citizens of the neighborhood, bent upon an evening's innocent diversion. All were comrades of long standing, bound together like a Scottish clan. And all were friends of Pop Dillon. They had called up Jane when Pop failed to appear that night, and had learned the reason for his absence. It was his first failure in years to sit in their game and there had been an impulse at first to call it off for the evening. But they knew that Pop would not ap-
