That other night Garry's stack of chips had lasted far longer than they
did on this second occasion. A half hour later, when he rose to go to
bed, his ninety-nine year promise of abstinence was piled symmetrically
before Fat Joe. But his good-night was gay. For a time after his
departure Joe eyed Steve, sidewise.
"Hum-m-m," he cleared his throat. "Hum-m-m! And I was expectin' you
to turn up any hour of the last twenty-four with a request that I come
and help bring home the remains. You must be quite a silver-tongued
exhorter, aren't you, Steve?"
Stephen O'Mara was silent over the paper which Joe had handed him
earlier in the evening, and the lack of any offer on his part to go
into details did not trouble his questioner. Fat Joe sat and bobbed
his head over what would never cease to be a miracle in his eyes.
"And he'll stick this time," he vented his wonder aloud. "He's surely
going to stick!" Then he smiled widely. "And I reckon you'll have to
admit that I handled the small part that come my way with ease and
dispatch, when I tell you that he didn't catch so much as one lonesome
pair, all the time I was dealing. I'm ashamed of myself. I haven't
seen such a mean, crooked game of stud dealt since I come East!"
Garry was very quiet the next morning when he and Steve went back to
their work; before noon came his uneasiness had become very apparent to
the man whom he was assisting.
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