saloon. There was 'Single Out' analyzing the cuspidore and 'Curly'
dozin', as contorted and well-done as a pretzel. There was the crowd
hiding in the corners, and behind the faro-table stood the kid, one
hand among the scattered chips and cards, the other dominating the
layout with 'Curley's' 'six.' It couldn't have looked more natural
if we'd posed for it. It was a bully likeness, I thought, too, till
I seen myself glaring over the bar. All that showed of William P.
Joyce, bachelor of some arts and plenty of science, late of Dawson,
was the white of his eyes. And talkin' of white--say, I looked like
I had washing hung out. Seemed like the draught had riz my hair up,
too.

"'Nothing like it ever seen,' continues Struthers. 'I'll call it
'The Winning Card,' or 'At Bay,' or something like that. Feature it
as a typical Klondyke card game. I'll give you a two-page write-up.
Why, it's the greatest thing I ever did!'

"'I'm sorry,' says Morrow, thoughtful, 'but you musn't run it.'

"'What! says he, and I thinks, 'Oh, Lord! There goes my only show to
get perpetufied in ink.'

"'I can't let you use it. My wife might see it.'

"'Your wife!' says I. 'Are you married, pardner?'

"'Yes, I'm married,' and his voice sounded queer. 'I've got a
boy--too, see.'

"He took a locket from his flannel shirt and opened it. A
curly-headed, dimpled little youngster laughed out at me.

"'Well, I'm d----!' and then I took off my hat, for in the other side
was a woman--and, gentlemen, she _was_ a woman! When I seen her it
made me feel blushy and ashamed. Gee! She was a stunner. I just
stared at her till Struthers looked over my shoulder, and says,
excited:

"'Why, it's Olive Troop, the singer!'

"'Not any more,' says Morrow, smiling.

"'Oh! So you're the fellow she gave up her art for? I knew her on
the stage.'

"Something way deep down in the man grated on me, but the kid was
lookin' at the picture and never noticed, while hunger peered from
his face.

"'You can't blame me,' he says finally. 'She'd worry to death if she
saw that picture. The likeness is too good. You might substitute
another face on my shoulders; that can be done, can't it?'

"'Why, sure; dead easy, but I'll not run it at all if you feel that
way,' says the artist.

"Then, Morrow resumes, 'You'll be in Denver this fall, Struthers, eh?
Well, I want you to take a letter to her. She'll be glad to see an
old friend like you, and to hear f