gambling kings of the Southwest to prolong the secret session.
When the door was closed, First Class Crawley turned to his companion, his little gray eyes slipping around in their puffy sockets.
“Martin,” he said, “aint he a mark?”
The stomach of the rotund Martin undulated like a rubber bag filled with fluid. “Of all damn fools,” he gurgled.
“Were it clear?” inquired the proprietor of the Emporium.
“Plain as a speckled pup,” responded Martin, “except the note.”
“You see,” said First Class Crawley, turning around in his chair, “you live in New Mexico, and I wanted the note in your name so that if we had to sue we could get it in the United States court. You can't ever tell what the State courts are going to do with you, but old Uncle Sam's courts don't stand no flim-flam.”
“Crawley,” announced the owner of the Golden Horn, “Crawley, you are built like a white man, but you have got a head on you like a Yankee.”
When the Honorable Ambercrombie Hergan
