“But I don’t—­” began Johnson in protest.

“Say,” interrupted the Girl, falling back into her favourite position of resting both elbows on the bar, her face in her hands, “I’ve got you figgered out.  You’re awful good or awful bad.”  A remark which seemed to amuse the man, for he laughed heartily.

“Now, what do you mean by that?” presently he asked.

“Well, I mean so good that you’re a teetotaller, or so bad that you’re tired o’ life an’ whisky.”

Johnson shook his head.

“On the contrary, although I’m not good, I’ve lived and I’ve liked life pretty well.  It’s been bully!”

Surprised and delighted with his enthusiasm, the Girl raised her eyes to his, which look he mistook—­not unnaturally after all that had been said—­for one of encouragement.  A moment more and the restraint that he had exercised over himself had vanished completely.

“So have you liked it, Girl,” he went on, trying vainly to get possession of her hand, “only you haven’t lived, you haven’t lived—­not with your nature.  You see I’ve got a quick eye, too.”

To Johnson’s amazement she flushed and averted her face.  Following the direction of her eyes he saw Nick standing in the door with a broad grin on his face.

“You git, Nick!  What do you mean by . . .?” cried out the Girl in a tone that left no doubt in the minds of her hearers that she was annoyed, if not angry, at the intrusion.

Nick disappeared into the dance-hall as though shot out of a gun; whereupon, the Girl turned to Johnson with: 

“I haven’t lived?  That’s good!”

Johnson’s next words were insinuating, but his voice was cold in comparison with the fervent tones of a moment previous.

“Oh, you know!” was what he said, seating himself at the poker table.

“No, I don’t,” contradicted the Girl, taking a seat opposite him.

“Yes, you do,” he insisted.

“Well, say it’s an even chance I do an’ an even chance I don’t,” she parried.

Once more the passion in the man was stirring.

“I mean,” he explained in a voice that barely reached her, “life for all it’s worth, to the uttermost, to the last drop in the cup, so that it atones for what’s gone before, or may come after.”

The Girl’s face wore a puzzled look as she answered: 

“No, I don’t believe I know what you mean by them words.  Is it a—­” She cut her sentence short, and springing up, cried out:  “Oh, Lord—­Oh, excuse me, I sat on my gun!”

Johnson looked at her, genuine amusement depicted on his face.

“Look here,” said the Girl, suddenly perching herself upon the table, “I’m goin’ to make you an offer.”

“An offer?” Johnson fairly snatched the words out of her mouth.  “You’re going to make me an offer?”

“It’s this,” declared the Girl with a pleased look on her face.  “If ever you need to be staked—­”