Goodell lighted another cigarette and nonchalantly seated himself in the
vacant chair. Then I observed for the first time that the game was for
blood rather than pastime, for Goodell paid for his little pile of white
beans in good, gold coin of the realm. Next to playing a little "draw"
myself, I like to watch the game, and so I moved over where I could see
the bets made and the hands exhibited. And there I stuck till "stables"
sounded, watching the affable sergeant outgeneral his opponents, and
noting with some amusement the sulky look that grew more intensified on
the heavy face of Hicks (as they called the man who had favored me with
that peculiar stare) when Goodell finessed him out of two or three
generous-sized pots.
On my way to attend to my horse, Bat Perkins overtook me.
"Say, old-timer, is it right about Mac losing his stripes and getting
thirty days in the cooler?" he asked in lowered tone.
"It sure is," I answered emphatically.
"What in thunder for?" he inquired resentfully. And because I was aching
to express my candid opinion of Major Lessard and all his works to some
one who would understand my point of view, I told Bat all about
it--omitting any mention of the gold-dust. Only four men, Dobson the
fathead, Lessard, MacRae and myself, knew what little was known of that,
and I felt that I had no license to spread the knowledge further.
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