“You, Thompson!” he roared.  “Turn over that hand!  I feel that you have treated this Court with the greatest contemptibility!” He pawed the discard with frantic haste, producing the seven of hearts.

“Why, you pink-cheeked, dewy-eyed catamaran!  What——­have you got, anyway?”

“Why, Judge,” said Steve earnestly, “I’ve got a strong case of circumstantial evidence.”  He turned over the eight of hearts; then, after a pause, the ace, king, queen and jack of spades; and resumed the stacking of his chips.  “I discarded that seven of hearts,” he said, smiling at the Merchant.

A howl of joyous admiration went up; the Transient raked in the pot.

“The Crime of the Century!” bellowed the Judge.  “I’m the victim of the Accomplished Fact!  Cash my checks!  I’m going to join the Ladies’ Aid!”

“Aw, shut up,” gasped the Transient.  “No sleep till morn where youth and booty meetsh!  Give ush ’nother deck!”

But Steve, having stacked his chips, folded the bills and put them in his pocket.

“What’s the matter with you, you old fool?” demanded the Eminent Person affectionately.  “You can’t quit now.”

Steve rose, bowing to right and left, spreading his hand over his heart.  “Deeply as I regret and, as I might say, deplore, to quit a good easy game,” he declaimed, “I must now remove myself from your big midst.  For a Lalla-Cooler can only be played once in one night.  Besides, I’ve always heard that no man ever quit ahead of the game, and I’m going to prove the rule.  I will never play another card, never no more!”

“What—­not in your whole life?” said the Stockman, chin on hand, raising his eyebrows at the last word.

“Oh—­in my whole life!” admitted Steve.  He drew a dollar from his pocket, balanced it on his thumb, and continued:  “We will now invoke the arbitrament of chance to decide the destinies of nations.  Heads, I order an assortment of vines and fig trees, go back to the Jornado and become a cattle-king, I proceed to New-York-on-the-Hudson, by the Ess-Pee at 3:15 this A.M. presently, and arouse that somnolent city from its Rip Van Winkle.”

The coin went spinning to the ceiling.  “Tails!” said the Merchant, picking it up.  “I must warn my friends on Wall Street, Hello! this is a bad dollar!”

“I’ll keep it for a souvenir of the joyful occasion,” said Steve.  “Just one more now, and we’ll all go home!”

“Hold on, you abandoned profligate!” said the Judge.  “You don’t know any one in the Big Burgh, do you?  Thought not.  Without there!  Ho, varlet!” He thumped on the table, demanding writing materials.  “I’ll fix you out.  Give you a letter to a firm of mining experts I’m in touch with.”

After an interval devoted to refreshments, the Judge read with all the pride of authorship: 

Messrs. Atwood, Strange & Atwood, 25 Broad Street, New York City.

Gentlemen: