“I can understand how you swear sometimes,” he said to Lin McLean; “but I can’t, you see.  Not even at this.”

The cow-puncher was checking his own trunk to Omaha.

“Good-bye and good luck to you,” continued the bishop, giving his hand to Lin.  “And look here—­don’t you think you might leave that ‘getting full’ out of your plans?”

Lin gave a slightly shamefaced grin.  “I don’t guess I can, sir,” he said.  “I’m givin’ yu’ straight goods, yu’ see,” he added.

“That’s right.  But you look like a man who could stop when he’d had enough.  Try that.  You’re man enough—­and come and see me whenever we’re in the same place.”

He went to the hotel.  There were several hours for Lin to wait.  He walked up and down the platform till the stars came out and the bright lights of the town shone in the saloon windows.  Over across the way piano-music sounded through one of the many open doors.

“Wonder if the professor’s there yet?” said Lin, and he went across the railroad tracks.  The bartender nodded to him as he passed through into the back room.  In that place were many tables, and the flat clicking and rattle of ivory counters sounded pleasantly through the music.  Lin did not join the stud-poker game.  He stood over a table at which sat a dealer and a player, very silent, opposite each other, and whereon were painted sundry cards, numerals, and the colors red and black in squares.  The legend “Jacks pay” was also clearly painted.  The player placed chips on whichever insignia of fortune he chose, and the dealer slid cards (quite fairly) from the top of a pack that lay held within a skeleton case made with some clamped bands of tin.  Sometimes the player’s pile of chips rose high, and sometimes his sumptuous pillar of gold pieces was lessened by one.  It was very interesting and pretty to see; Lin had much better have joined the game of stud-poker.  Presently the eye of the dealer met the eye of the player.  After that slight incident the player’s chip pile began to rise, and rose steadily, till the dealer made admiring comments on such a run of luck.  Then the player stopped, cashed in, and said good-night, having nearly doubled the number of his gold pieces.

“Five dollars’ worth,” said Lin, sitting down in the vacant seat.  The chips were counted out to him.  He played with unimportant shiftings of fortune until a short while before his train was due, and then, singularly enough, he discovered he was one hundred and fifty dollars behind the game.

“I guess I’ll leave the train go without me,” said Lin, buying five dollars’ worth more of ivory counters.  So that train came and went, removing eastward Mr. McLean’s trunk.

During the hour that followed his voice grew dogged and his remarks briefer, as he continually purchased more chips from the now surprised and sympathetic dealer.  It was really wonderful how steadily Lin lost—­ just as steadily as his predecessor had won after that meeting of eyes early in the evening.