And so on, till parties round her begun to get nervous.  Yes, sir; she kept this stuff going in low, tense tones till she had every one in hearing buffaloed; they was ready to give her the lot right there and tear up their own tickets.  She was like a crapshooter when he keeps calling to the dice:  “Come, seven—­come on, come on!” All right for the psychics, but that’s what she reminded me of.

And in just another minute everybody there thought she’d cheated by taking these here lessons that she got from Chicago for twelve dollars; for you can believe it or not but her number won the lot.  Yes, sir; thirty-three took the deed and Lon filled in her name on it right there.  Many a cold look was shot at her as she rushed over to embrace her husband, a big lump of a man that’s all right as far up as his Adam’s apple, and has been clerking in the Owl Cigar Store ever since he can remember.  He tells her she is certainly a wonder and she calls him a silly boy; says it’s just a power she has developed through concentration, and now she must claim from the all-good a dear little home of seven rooms and bath, to be built on this lot; and she knows it will come if she goes into the silence and demands it.  Say!  People with any valuables on ’em begun to edge off, not knowing just how this strange power of hers might work.

Then I look round and see the other booths ain’t creating near the excitement they had ought to be, only a few here and there taking two-bit chances on things if Mrs. Wales ain’t going in on ’em, too; several of the most attractive booths was plumb deserted, with the girls in charge looking mad or chagrined, as you might say.  So I remember this hidden evil of Egbert Floud’s and that the crowd has gone there; and while I’m deciding to give in and gratify my morbid curiosity, here comes Cousin Egbert himself, romping along in his dinner-jacket suit and tan shoes, like a wild mustang.

“What was I telling you?” he demands.  “Didn’t I tell you the rest of this show was going to die standing up?  Yes, sir; she’s going to pass out on her feet.”  And he waved a sneering arm round at the deserted booths.  “What does parties want of this truck when they can come down to my joint and get real entertainment for their money?  Why, they’re breaking their ankles now to get in there!”

It sure looked like he was right for once in his life; so I says: 

“What is it you’ve done?”

“Simple enough,” says he, “to a thinking man.  It comes to me like a flash or inspiration, or something, from being down to that fair in San Francisco, California.  Yes, sir; they had a deadfall there, with every kind of vice rampant that has ever been legalized any place, and several kinds that ain’t ever been; they done everything, from strong-arm work to short changing, and they was getting by with it by reason of calling it Ye Olde Tyme Mining Camp of ’49, or something poetical like that.  That was where I got nicked