The almond-eyed Celestial vanished, wondering vaguely if it had not been better to remain in San Francisco and launder shirts in a cellar than to attempt to cater to the depraved taste of such incomprehensible foreign devils.
“Now, Bill,” continued the Major, seating himself at the table, “I want to know what you are going to do.”
“About what?” asked the gambler.
“About this money which you owe the State,” said the Major. “Do you realize, sir, that our stand in the Southwest is just about closing, and that we have got to square up and pull out?”
“I reckon so,” replied the gambler, as though it were a matter of no importance.
“You reckon so! You irresponsible truck horse! You reckon so!” snorted the Major. “You will cease to indulge in the dainty pastime of speculation when you get a log-chain on your leg and a striped suit on your back.”
The Secretary of State laughed. “Something will turn up,” he said.
“Ambercrombie Hergan,” said the Major, pounding the table with his hand, “for a
