Among those standing at the bar, and looking out of bleared eyes at a flashy lithograph tacked upon the wall which pictured a Spanish woman in short skirts and advertised “Espaniola Cigaroos,” were two miners:  one with curly hair and a pink-and-white complexion; the other, tall, loose-limbed and good-natured looking.  They were known respectively as Handsome Charlie and Happy Halliday, and had been arguing in a maudlin fashion over the relative merits of Spanish and American beauties.  The moment the song was concluded they banged their glasses significantly on the bar; but since it was an unbroken rule of the house that at the close of the musician’s performance he should be rewarded by a drink, which was always passed up to him, they needs must wait.  The little barkeeper paid no attention to their demands until he had satisfied the thirst of the old concertina player who, presently, could be seen drawing aside the bear-pelt curtain and passing through the small, square opening of the partition which separated the Polka Saloon from its dance-hall.

“Not goin’, old Dooda Day, are you?” The question, almost a bellow, which, needless to say, was unanswered, came from Sonora Slim who, with his great pal Trinidad Joe, was playing faro at a table on one side of the room.  Apparently, both were losing steadily to the dealer whose chair, placed up against the pine-boarded wall, was slightly raised above the floor.  This last individual was as fat and unctuous looking as his confederate, the Look-out, was thin and sneaky; moreover, he bore the sobriquet of The Sidney Duck and, obviously, was from Australia.

“Say, what did the last eight do?” Sonora now asked, turning to the case-keeper.

“Lose.”

“Well, let the tail go with the hide,” returned Sonora, resignedly.

“And the ace—­how many times did it win?” inquired Trinidad.

“Four times,” was the case-keeper’s answer.

All this time a full-blooded Indian with long, blue-black hair, very thick and oily, had been watching the game with excited eyes.  His dress was part Indian and part American, and he wore all kinds of imitation jewelry including a huge scarf-pin which flashed from his vivid red tie.  Furthermore, he possessed a watch,—­a large, brassy-looking article,—­ which he brought out on every possible occasion.  When not engaged in helping himself to the dregs that remained in the glasses carelessly left about the room, he was generally to be found squatted down on the floor and playing a solitaire of his own devising.  But now he reached over Sonora’s shoulder and put some coins on the table in front of the dealer.

“Give Billy Jackrabbit fer two dolla’ Mexican chip,” he demanded in a guttural voice.

The Sidney Duck did as requested.  While he was shuffling the cards for a new deal, the players beat time with their feet to the music that floated in from the dance-hall.  The tune seemed to have an unusually exhilarating effect on Happy Halliday, for letting out a series of whoops he staggered off towards the adjoining room with the evident intention of getting his fill of the music, not forgetting to yell back just before he disappeared: