hind Mr. Eaton stepped Joe Sloan, the gambler. While Eaton hesitated whether to go or stay, this man never removed his shifty eyes. Joe Sloan's nose wasn't straight with his face, and Joe wasn't straight with anything. Nature never put such a crooked sign on straight goods. Mr. J. Blair Eaton didn't believe in signs.
At the lower end of the gangplank waited a burly man with a blue cap and hand satchel. "You're late, Joe," he whispered; "I thought your chicken had flew the coop, so I was fixing to get off this boat."
"Yes, Cap," Joe Sloan replied. "Eaton changed his mind forty times in twenty minutes—slippery fish; but mighty good when you catch him."
"Well," whispered the big man; "cabin's all ready; cigars and liquor, brands that he likes. We've got to make a killing." Cap Wright strolled off while Joe leaned casually against the rail.
In passing Cap Wright nudged his partner. "Look who's here! Prince Jim," pointing to Colonel Spottiswoode, between the Englishmen.
"Prince Jim," Joe Sloan exclaimed. The younger gambler turned to gaze admiringly upon a man of whom he had long heard as the acknowledged king of their craft—who had enriched their traditions with so many niceties of skill and daring.
