, as he stood at his gate looking over at the second-story
window of the Gilman house, and as he lay upon his pillow. To dwell in
perpetual ease, to be surrounded with endless luxury, to spend money
prodigally in all the glitter and pomp of the places that had been
built at the demand of extravagance: these things had become an
obsession with him--yet, for them, he was not willing to work and
wait.

Gilman felt that he had lost vast estates, when, upon calling at the
hotel in the morning, he found that Mr. Daw had left upon an early
train. He was worried, too, that he had not been able to see Wix
before he started down-town. Most opportunely, however, Wix sauntered
out of Sam Glidden's cigar store, opposite the hotel, as Gilman
emerged upon the street.

"When's the funeral?" asked Wix. "You look like a sick-headache
feels."

"Daw has gone, and without leaving me any word," quavered Gilman. "I
suppose he'll--he'll probably write to me, though."

"I'm betting that he has writer's cramp every time he tries it,"
asserted Wix.

"But I signed an agreement with him last night. He must write."

"Does this look anything like that agreement," asked Wix, and from his
pocket drew the document, torn once across each way. Gilman gazed at
the pieces blankly. "I got it away from him, and tore it up myself,
last night," continued Wix. "Also, I ran the gentleman out of town on
the five-thirty-seven this morning, headed due east and still going."

"What do you mean?" gasped Gilman. "Why, man, you've taken away the
only chance I had to get even. I _have_ to make money, I tell you!"

"Be calm, little Cliffy," admonished Wix soothingly. "I'm going to get
it its money. Look here, Gilman, this man was a fake and I made him
say so, but his coming here gave me an idea. I'm going to open a
bucket-shop, and you're going to back it."

"Not a bucket-shop!" objected Gilman, aghast at the very name.

"Yes, a bucket-shop. Do you know how they operate? Of course not,
merely having played against them. Well, suppose you gamble a thousand
bushels of wheat on a two-cent margin, holding for a two-cent advance.
What happens to your twenty dollars? The bucket expert takes out his
buying commission of one-fourth cent a bushel. A straight broker
takes off one-eighth cent, but your man milks you for a nifty little
total of two dollars and a half, because you're a piker. If wheat goes
down one and three-fourths cents you lose the other seventeen-fifty