Lucky Star City had no suburbs.  The whole place had grown up in less than a year, and, in fact, such buildings as had existed for six months were known as “old.”  There was but one street, though a few ambitious landowners had run up houses in “gardens” at a short but haughty distance from the “business part”; and at night the town was seen at its best.  The three two-storeyed, verandaed hotels—­one painted white, another green, the third and noisiest not painted at all—­blazed with lights.  The drug store, the jewellery store (for there was a jewellery store, and a prosperous one), the grocery store—­combining a large trade in candy—­the post office, and the dry-goods store—­where two extremes were made to meet with a display of hats and shoes in the same window—­were every one open and crowded.  Men in shirt-sleeves, and men in khaki, men of almost all conditions and nations, sat or lounged on the hotel verandas making music or listening to it, swapping stories and yelling with laughter.  Away in the distance at one end of the long street—­which had no pavement but yellow sand—­there was a shooting gallery, and every second or two was marked off with a shot, or a shout of applause or derision.  At the other end, equally far away from the populous centre of shops, was a variety theatre, a mere shanty, run up in a day; and as Nick took his way toward the green-painted hotel he could hear the shrill squalling of a woman’s untrained voice, shrieking out the latest comic song.

“Hello, Nick!” “How go things, High-pockets?” friendly voices saluted Hilliard as he marched through the cigarette-strewn sand.  And he had a laughing word for each one.  Everybody who was anybody had a nickname at Lucky Star City, and Hilliard was rather pleased with “High-pockets” —­bestowed upon him because of his height and his long straight legs.  “The Dook” was the sobriquet of the person he had come to see; and it was by this name that Nick inquired for him, gravely, of the landlord.

The man addressed chuckled.  “I guess he’s gone over to Meek’s to try and borrow some cash off his dear country-man.  I seen him strollin’ down that way.  Hope Meek’ll fork out.  The Dook owes me two weeks’ board, and I’ve give him notice to pay up or quit.  London hotels may hand out free meals to the nobility and gentry for the sake o’ the ad.  But this ain’t London.  Nope!”

“Is he nobility?” inquired Nick.

“Blamed if I know.  Puts on airs enough.  Ain’t got much else to put on now, I guess.  No one never told me you and he was chums.”

“No more we are.  I never had a word with him; but I’m lookin’ for a few,” said Nick.  “If he can make good, we may do some business together.”

“Huh!” grunted the landlord of the emerald-painted hotel, which had received its colour in honour and subtle advertisement of the owner’s name—­Green.  “I don’t see you two swappin’ canteens any, Nick, but it ain’t for me to bust into your game; and I guess if you sling him a roll o’ your good greenbacks, I’ll contrive to switch some o’ ’em off the line into my pocket.  That’s to say, if you give him a job he can stick to his bunk and his grub in my hotel.”