The reckless plunging ceased so far as it was against him.  The others, for most part, merely called his tentative bets with wary respect.  Men of his type are never so formidable as in defeat.  Things had come to such a pass that many good hands netted him little or nothing.  Then came a rally; his pile crept slowly up until he was nearly even.

With twenty dollars each in a jackpot, the Eminent Person dealing, the Stockman modestly opened for two hundred.  The Transient stayed, as did the Merchant and the Judge, the latter mildly stating that he would lie low and let some one else play his hand.  Steve stayed.

“Happy as the dealer in a big jackpot,” warbled the Eminent Person.  “And now we will take an observation.”  He scrutinized his cards, contributed his quota, and raised for double the amount.  “I’ll just play the Judge’s hand for him,” he remarked blandly.  The Stockman cheerfully re-raised five hundred.

The Transient, momentarily low in funds, stayed for all he had before him.  “I’ve got a show for this much,” he said, pushing back the side money. “And a pretty good one.  Bet your fool heads off!  You’ve got to beat a hectic flush to finger this pot!”

The Merchant laid down three sevens, of diamonds, spades and clubs.  “Any one got the seven of hearts?” he wondered.  The Judge called.  Steve, squeezing his hand carefully, drew out the seven of hearts, flashed it at the Merchant, replaced it, and stayed.

The Eminent Person, after due consideration, saw the five hundred and raised it to a thousand.  “To dissuade you all from drawing out on me,” he explained, stroking his mustache with deliberate care.

The Stockman called without comment.  The Judge hesitated, swore ferociously, and finally called.

Steve squeezed his cards with both hands for a final corroborative inspection, scratched his head and rolled his eye solemnly around the festal board.

“Eleven hundred dollars of my good coin in there now, and here I sit between the devil and the deep, blue sea.  One thousand bucks.  Much money.  Ugh!  One thousand days, each day of twenty-four golden hours set with twenty near-diamond minutes!  Well!  I sure hate to give you fellows this good gold.”

“Steve’s got one of them things!” surmised the Stockman.

“A fellow does hate to lay down a bobtail straight flush when there’s such a chance for action if he fills,” chimed in the Eminent dealer.

“It’s face up, Steve.  You’d just as well show us.  My boy, you ought to wear a mustache,” said the Judge, critically.  “Your lips get pale and give you away when you try to screw your courage up.  Of course, you’ve got a sweet, little, rosebud mouth; but you need a big, ox-horn mustache in this vocation.”

“Don’t show it, Steve,” advised the Stockman.  “I judge his Honor’s got one of them same things his black self.  You might both fill—­and you don’t want to let him see how high yours is.”