Mr. O’Brodereque hopes gentlemen are satisfied with what they have seen, and will pledge his honour that the pony and dog are quite as sound and healthy as the wench whose portions they have had a chance to shy; and for which-the extra sight-they should pay an extra treat.  This, however, his generosity will not allow him to stand upon; and, seeing how time is precious, and the weather warm, he hopes his friends will excuse the presence of the animals, take his word of honour in consideration of the sight of the wench.

“Now, gentlemen,” he says, “the throws are soon to commence, and all what ain’t put down the tin better attend that ar’ needful arrangement, quicker!”

As the general concludes this very significant invitation, Dan Bengal, Anthony Romescos, and Nath Nimrod, enter together.  Their presence creates some little commotion, for Romescos is known to be turbulent, and very uncertain when liquor flows freely, which is the case at present.

“I say, general!-old hoss!  I takes all the chances what’s left,” Romescos shouts at the top of his voice.  His eyes glare with anxiety,—­his red, savage face, doubly sun-scorched, glows out as he elbows his way through the crowd up to the desk, where sits a corpulent clerk.  “Beg your pardon, gentlemen:  not so fast, if you please!” he says, entering names in his ledger, receiving money, “doing the polite of the establishment.”

Romescos’s coat and nether clothing are torn in several places, a hunting-belt girdles his waist; a bowie-knife (Sheffield make) protrudes from his breast-pocket, his hair hangs in jagged tufts over the collar of his coat, which, with the rough moccasons on his feet, give him an air of fierce desperaton and recklessness.  His presence is evidently viewed with suspicion; he is a curious object which the crowd are willing to give ample space to.

“No, you don’t take ’em all, neither!” says another, in a defiant tone.  The remaining “chances” are at once put up for sale; they bring premiums, as one by one they are knocked down to the highest bidders, some as much as fifty per cent. advance.  Gentlemen are not to know it, because Mr. O’Brodereque thinks his honour above everything else; but the fact is, there is a collusion between Romescos and the honourable Mr. O’Brodereque.  The former is playing his part to create a rivalry that will put dollars and cents into the pocket of the latter.

“Well!” exclaims Romescos, with great indifference, as soon as the sale had concluded, “I’ve got seven throws, all lucky ones.  I’ll take any man’s bet for two hundred dollars that I gets the gal prize.”  Nobody seems inclined to accept the challenge.  A table is set in the centre of the saloon, the dice are brought on, amidst a jargon of noise and confusion; to this is added drinking, smoking, swearing, and all kinds of small betting.

The raffle commences; one by one the numbers are called.  Romescos’ turn has come; all eyes are intently set upon him.  He is celebrated for tricks of his trade; he seldom repudiates the character, and oftener prides in the name of a shrewd one, who can command a prize for his sharp dealing.  In a word, he has a peculiar faculty of shielding the doubtful transactions of a class of men no less dishonest, but more modest in point of reputation.