Tracy is a pretty good little sport himself.  He says, No, and that’ll be all, please, not only on account of the sacred memory of his mother but because the poor Belgians has got to catch it going if they don’t catch it coming; and he’s beat it out to a booth and bought the twenty-five-dollar gold clock with chimes, with the other three dollars going for the dozen bottles of Snake Oil and the twenty street-car tickets.

And now let there be no further words about it, but there was when she hears this horrible disclosure—­lots of words, and the brute won’t even give her the street-car tickets, which she could play in for a dollar, and she has to go to the retiring room to bathe her temples, and treats Tracy all the rest of the evening like a crippled stepchild, thinking of all she could of won if he hadn’t acted like a snake in the grass toward her!

Right after this Mrs. Leonard Wales, in her flag and powder, begun to stick up out of the scene, though not risking any money as yet.  She’d just stand there like one petrified while cash was being paid in and out, keeping away about three women of regular size that would like to get their silver down.  I caught the gleam in her eye, and the way she drawed in her breath when the lucky number was called out, kind of shrinking her upper lip every time in a bloodthirsty manner.  Yes, sir; in the presence of actual money that dame reminded me of the great saber-toothed tiger that you see terrible pictures of in the animal books.

Pretty soon she mowed down a lot of her sister gamblers and got out to where Leonard was standing, to tell him all about how she’d have won a lot of money if she’d only put some chips down at the right time, the way she would of done if she’d had any; and Leonard said what a shame!  And they drifted into a corner, talking low.  I bet she was asking him if she couldn’t make a claim to these here bets she’d won in her mind, and if this wasn’t the magic time to get the little home or bungalow on the new lot she’d won by finding out from the Chicago professor how to mould her destiny.

Then I lose track of the two for a minute, because Judge Ballard comes in escorting his sister from South Carolina, that’s visiting them, and invites every one to take something in her honour.  She was a frail little old lady, very old-fashioned indeed, with white hair built up in a waterfall and curls over both ears, and a flowered silk dress that I bet was made in Civil War times, and black lace mitts.  Say!  She looked like one of the ladies that would of been setting in the front of a box at Ford’s Theatre the night President Lincoln was shot up!

She seemed a mite rattled when she found herself in a common barroom, having failed to read Cousin Egbert’s undeniably quaint signs; but the Judge introduced her to some that hadn’t met her yet, and when he asked her what her refreshment would be she said in a very brazen way that she would take a drop of anisette cordial.  Louis Meyer says they ain’t keeping that, and she says, Oh, dear! she’s too old-fashioned!  So Cousin Egbert says, why, then she should take an old-fashioned cocktail, which she does and sips it with no sign of relish.  Then she says she will help the cause by wagering a coin on yonder game of chance.