“I know!  I know!”

“We’ll never get nowheres in this game, hon.  We ain’t even sure enough of ourselves to have a home like—­like regular folks.”

“Never you mind, Babe.  Startin’ first of the year, I’m going to begin to look to a little nest-egg.”

“We ought to have it, Blutch.  Just think of lettin’ ourselves get down to the last seventy-five!  What if a rainy day should come—­where would we be at?  If you—­or me should get sick or something.”

“You ain’t all wrong, girl.”

“You’d give the shirt off your back, Blutch; that’s why we can’t ever have a nest-egg as long as you’re playin’ stakes.  There’s too many hard-luck stories lying around loose in the gamblin’ game.”

“The next big haul I make I’m going to get out, girl, so help me!”

“Blutch!”

“I mean it.  We’ll buy a chicken-farm.”

“Why not a little business, Blutch, in a small town with—­”

“There’s a great future in chicken-farmin’.  I set Boy Higgins up with a five-hundred spot the year his lung went back on him, and he paid me back the second year.”

“Blutch darlin’, you mean it?”

“Why not, Babe—­seein’ you want it?  There ain’t no string tied to me and the green-felt table.  I can go through with anything I make up my mind to.”

“Oh, honey baby, you promise!  Darling little fuzzy chickens!”

“Why, girl, I wouldn’t have you eatin’ yourself thisaway.  The first ten-thou’ high-water mark we hit I’m quits.  How’s that?”

“Ten thousand!  Oh, Blutch, we—­”

“What’s ten thou’, girl!  I made the Hot Springs haul with a twenty-dollar start.  If you ain’t careful, we’ll be buyin’ that chicken-farm next week.  That’s what can happen to my girl if she starts something with her hubby.”

Suddenly Mrs. Connors crumpled in a heap upon the lacy pillows, pink sequins heaving.

“Why, Babe—­Babe, what is it?  You’re sick or something to-night, honey.”  He lifted her to his arms, bent almost double over her.

“Nothin’, Blutch, only—­only I just never was so happy.”

“Lord!” said Blutch Connors.  “All these years, and I never knew anything was eatin’ her.”

“I—­I never was, Blutch.”

“Was what?”

“So—­happy.”

“Lord bless my soul!  The poor little thing was afraid to say it was a chicken-farm she wanted!”

He patted her constantly, his eyes somewhat glazy.

“Us two, Blutch, livin’ regular.”

“You ain’t all wrong, girl.”

“You home evenings, Blutch, regular like.”

“You poor little thing!”

“You’ll play safe, Blutch?  Play safe to win!”

“I wish I’d have went into the farmin’ three years ago, Babe, the week I hauled down eleven thou’.”

“You was too fed up with luck then, Blutch.  I knew better ’n to ask.”

“Lord bless my soul! and the poor little thing was afraid to say it was a chicken-farm she wanted!”