The gambler did not respond. For a few moments he was silent. Then he put his hands into the inside pocket of his coat and drew forth a rather battered leather pocket-book. He held the pocket-book under the table, opened it slowly, and selecting a fifty-dollar bill from among a number of others, laid it gently on the table.
“There,” he said, “is my ante. I want in the game.”
The eyes of the clerk began to contract slowly at the corners.
“My dear man,” he said, “I should like to do this for you, but I don't see how I can. I don't believe Mr. Mason would even listen to me just now. I don't”
“Wait,” responded the gambler; “I sweeten it.”
Thereupon he selected another bill from the pocket-book and spread it out carefully beside the other upon the table.
The little bald clerk began to drum on the chair with his fingers. His eyes wandered from the money to the door of Mason's private office, and back again. Presently he turned to the gambler.
