one side, making a brave effort with the "near" beer and "almost
there" concoctions of a prohibition buried country, was the
"old-fashioned bar" with its old-fashioned bartender behind it, roaring
out his orders and serving drinks with one hand while he waved and
pulled the trigger of a blank-cartridged revolver with the other.
Farther on was the roulette wheel, and Fairchild strolled to it,
watching the others to catch the drift of the game before he essayed
it, playing with pennies where, in the old days, men had gambled away
fortunes; surrounded by a crowd that laughed and chattered and forgot
its bets, around a place where once a "sleeper" might have meant a
fortune. The spirit of the old times was abroad. The noise and
clatter of a dance caller bellowed forth as he shouted for everybody to
grab their "podners one an' all, do-se-do, promenade th' hall!" and
Fairchild, as he watched, saw that his lack of dancing ability would
not be a serious handicap. There were many others who did not know the
old numbers. And those who did had worn their hobnailed boots,
sufficient to take the spring out of any one's feet. The women were
doing most of the leading, the men clattered along somewhere in the
rear, laughing and shouting and inadvertently kicking one another on
the shins. The old times had come back, boisterously, happily,--and
every one was living in those days when the hills gushed wealth, and
when poverty to-day might mean riches tomorrow.

Again and again Fairchild's eyes searched the crowds, the multicolored,
overdressed costumes of the women, the old-fashioned affairs with which
many of the men had arrayed themselves, ranging all the way from high
leather boots to frock suits and stovepipe beaver hats. From one face
to another his gaze went; then he turned abstractedly to the long line
of tables, with their devotees of keno, and bought a paddle.

From far away the drone of the caller sounded in a voice familiar, and
Fairchild looked up to see the narrow-eyed, scarred face of Squint
Rodaine, who was officiating at the wheel. He lost interest in the
game; lackadaisically he placed the buttons on their squares as the
numbers were shouted, finally to brush them all aside and desert the
game. His hatred of the Rodaines had grown to a point where he could
enjoy nothing with which they were connected, where he despised
everything with which they had the remotest affiliation,--excepting, of
course, one person.