as he who
stacked the universal card-deck of existence.

There was no justice in the deal. The little men that came, the little
pulpy babies, were not even asked if they wanted to try a flutter at
the game. They had no choice. Luck jerked them into life, slammed
them up against the jostling table, and told them: "Now play, damn you,
play!" And they did their best, poor little devils. The play of some
led to steam yachts and mansions; of others, to the asylum or the
pauper's ward. Some played the one same card, over and over, and made
wine all their days in the chaparral, hoping, at the end, to pull down
a set of false teeth and a coffin. Others quit the game early, having
drawn cards that called for violent death, or famine in the Barrens, or
loathsome and lingering disease. The hands of some called for kingship
and irresponsible and numerated power; other hands called for ambition,
for wealth in untold sums, for disgrace and shame, or for women and
wine.

As for himself, he had drawn a lucky hand, though he could not see all
the cards. Somebody or something might get him yet. The mad god,
Luck, might be tricking him along to some such end. An unfortunate set
of circumstances, and in a month's time the robber gang might be
war-dancing around his financial carcass. This very day a street-car
might run him down, or a sign fall from a building and smash in his
skull. Or there was disease, ever rampant, one of Luck's grimmest
whims. Who could say? To-morrow, or some other day, a ptomaine bug, or
some other of a thousand bugs, might jump out upon him and drag him
down. There was Doctor Bascom, Lee Bascom who had stood beside him a
week ago and talked and argued, a picture of magnificent youth, and
strength, and health. And in three days he was dead--pneumonia,
rheumatism of the heart, and heaven knew what else--at the end
screaming in agony that could be heard a block away. That had been
terrible. It was a fresh, raw stroke in Daylight's consciousness. And
when would his own turn come? Who could say?

In the meantime there was nothing to do but play the cards he could see
in his hand, and they were BATTLE, REVENGE, AND COCKTAILS. And Luck
sat over all and grinned.

CHAPTER XI

One Sunday, late in the afternoon, found Daylight across the bay in the
Piedmont hills back of Oakland. As usual, he was in a big motor-car,
though not his own, the guest of Swiftwater Bill, Luck's own darling,
who had c