ansportation of edibles.

Supper over, they smoked till the table was cleared. Then coats were
removed and they sat down to the serious business of an all night session
of draw.

Curly was not playing to win money so much as to study the characters of
those present. Bill he knew already fairly well as a tough nut to crack,
game to the core, and staunch to his friends. Blackwell was a bad lot,
treacherous, vindictive, slippery as an eel. Even his confederates did not
trust him greatly. But it was Soapy Stone and young Cullison that
interested Flandrau most. The former played like a master. He chatted
carelessly, but he overlooked no points. Sam had the qualities that go to
make a brilliant erratic player, but he lacked the steadiness and the
finesse of the veteran.

The last play before they broke up in the gray dawn was a flashlight on
Stone's cool audacity. The limit had long since been taken off. Blackwell
and Stone had been the winners of the night, and the rest had all lost
more or less.

Curly was dealing, Cranston opened the pot.

"She's cracked," he announced.

Blackwell, sitting next to him, had been waiting his turn with palpable
eagerness. "Got to boost her, boys, to protect Bill," he explained as his
raise went in.

Sam, who had drunk more than was good for him, raised in his turn. "Kick
her again, gentlemen. Me, I'm plumb tired of that little song of mine,
'Good here'."

Stone stayed. Curly did not come in.

Cranston showed his openers and laid down his hand. Blackwell hesitated,
then raised again.

"Reckon I'm content to trail along," Cullison admitted, pushing in the
necessary chips.

Soapy rasped his stubby chin, looked sideways at Sam and then at
Blackwell, and abruptly shaved in chips enough to call the raise.

"Cards?" asked Curly.

"I'll play these," Blackwell announced.

Sam called for two and Stone one.

Blackwell raised. Sam, grumbling, stayed.

"Might as well see what you've got when I've gone this far," he gave as a
reason for throwing good money after bad.

Soapy took one glance at his new card and came in with a raise.

Blackwell slammed his fist down on the table. "Just my rotten luck. You've
filled."

Stone smiled, then dropped his eyes to his cards. Suddenly he started.
What had happened was plain. He had misread his hand.

With a cheerful laugh Blackwell raised in his turn.

"Lets me out," Sam said.

For about a tenth of a second one could see triumph ride in S