“Whose wheel was it?” said Racey.

“Lacey’s at Marysville.”

“In the back room of the Sweet Dreams, huh?  An’ there’s nothing crooked about Lacey’s wheel, either.  It’s as square as Lacey himself.”

“Lacey’s wasn’t the only wheel.  They was McFluke’s, too.”

So McFluke had a wheel, had he?  This was news to Racey Dawson.

“How long has McFluke been runnin’ a wheel?” inquired Racey.

“Quite a while,” was the vague reply.

“A year?”

“Maybe longer.  I dunno.”

“Funny it never got round.”

“It was a private wheel.  Only for his friends.  Nothin’ public about it.”

“Who used to play it besides you?” persisted Racey, hanging to his subject like a bull-pup to a tramp’s trousers.

Mr. Dale wrinkled his forehead.  “Besides me?  Lessee now.  They were Doc Coffin, Nebraska Jones, Honey Hoke, and Punch-the-breeze Thompson.”

“Nobody else?”

“Aw, Galloway and Norton and that bunch,” Mr. Dale said, shamefacedly.

Racey nodded his head slowly.  A crooked wheel.  Of course it was crooked.  Why not?  That Dale, Galloway, Norton, and a few other gentlemen of the neighbourhood were under their wives’ thumbs to such a degree that they did not dare to gamble openly was a matter of common knowledge.  What more natural than that someone should provide them with a private gambling place?  With such cappers as Nebraska and his gang, losers would not feel equal to making much of an outcry.  It must be a paying occupation for McFluke, Nebraska, or whoever was at the bottom of the business.

Racey nodded again and squatted down on his heels.  He picked up a stick and squinted along its length.

“None of my business, of course,” he said, casually, “but would you mind telling me how much you lost to McFluke?”

“About seven thousand.”

Racey looked up at the sky.  Seven thousand dollars.  The full amount of the mortgage and two thousand more.  And McFluke had it all.

“You see,” said Mr. Dale, dolefully.  “I began to make money after I’d been here awhile and my health come back.  Yeah, I made money all right, all right.”  He pushed back his hat and scratched a grizzled head.  “I had luck,” he added.  “But you wasn’t round here then.  You’d gone to the Bend.”

“Yep, I’d gone to the Bend, damitall, and it shore seems like I’d stayed there too long.  Didn’t you ever guess McFluke’s wheel wasn’t straight?”

“Aw, it was so straight.  Mac wouldn’t cheat nobody.  Yo’re—­yo’re mistaken, Racey.”

“I am, huh?  Likell I’m mistaken.  I know what I’m talking about.  I tell you flat, McFluke is so crooked he could swallow a nail and spit out a corkscrew.  And he’s got that wheel trained.  You just bet he has.  Look under the table and see what he’s doing with his feet or his knees.  My Gawd, Dale, didn’t you know they make roulette wheels with a brake like a wagon?”