, but
there was only a small consignment for the store, and that was quickly
disposed of; so, leaving the other citizens of Flambeau to wrangle over
their private merchandise, he went back to his solitary vigil, which
finally became so unbearable that he sought to escape his thoughts, or
at least to drown them for a while, amid the lights and life and
laughter of Stark's saloon. Being but a child by nature, his means of
distraction were primal and elementary, and he began to gamble, as
usual with hard luck, for the cards had ever been unkind to him. He did
not think of winnings or losings, however--he merely craved the
occupation; and it was this that induced him to sit at a game in which
Runnion played, although ordinarily he would not have tolerated even
tacitly such a truce to his dislikes. As it was, he crouched in a
corner, his hat pulled down over his brow, his swarthy face a darker
hue beneath the shadow, losing steadily, only now and then showing a
flash of white teeth as he saw his money go. What mattered loss to him?
He had no more need of money now than Necia had of his love. He would
spend the dollars he had eked and scraped and saved for her as she had
spent the treasures of his heart, and now that the one had brought him
no return he wished to be rid of the other, for he was shortly to go
again in search of his "New Country," where no man needs gold half so
much as a clean heart. It would be a long journey, far to the West and
North--a journey that none of his kind had ever fared back from, and he
wished to go light, as all good adventurers go.

Runnion annoyed him with his volubility, for the news of his
good-fortune had fired the man with a reckless disregard for money, and
he turned to gaming as the one natural recourse of his ilk. As the
irony of fate would have it, he won what the Canadian lost, together
with the stakes of various others who played for a time with him and
then gave up, wagging their heads or swearing softly at the cards.

It was shortly after midnight that Stark came into the place. Poleon
was not too absorbed in his own fortunes to fail to notice the
extraordinary ferocity and exhilaration of the saloon-keeper, nor that
his face was keener, his nostrils thinner, his walk more nervous, and
his voice more cutting than usual when he spoke to Runnion.

"Come here."

"I'll be with you when I finish this hand," said the player, over his
shoulder.

"Come here!" Stark snapped his comma