Fixing a hypnotic gaze upon a bland, blue-eyed bystander who had just joined the charmed circle, he murmured, invitingly:  “Better try your luck, Olaf.  It’s Danish dice—­three chances to win and one to lose.”

The object of his address shook his head.  “Aye ant Danish, Aye ban Norvegen,” said he.

“Danish dice or Norwegian poker, they’re both the same.  I’ll deal you a free hand and it won’t cost you a cent.  Fix your baby blues on the little ball and watch me close.  Don’t let me deceive you.  Now then, which hut hides the grain?”

Noting a half-dozen pairs of eyes upon him, the Norseman became conscious that he was a center of interest.  He grinned half-heartedly and, after a brief hesitation, thrust forth a clumsy paw, lifted a shell, and exposed the object of general curiosity.

“You guessed it!” There was commendation, there was pleased surprise, in Mr. Broad’s tone.  “You can’t fool a foreigner, can you, boys?  My, my!  Ain’t it lucky for me that we played for fun?  But you got to give me another chance, Lars; I’ll fool you yet.  In walks the little pill once more, I make the magic pass, and you follow me attentively, knowing in your heart of hearts that I’m a slick un.  Now then, shoot, Kid; you can’t miss me!”

The onlookers stirred with interest; with eager fingers the artless Norwegian fumbled in his pocket.  At the last moment, however, he thought better of his impulse, grunted once, then turned his back to the table and walked away.

“Missed him!” murmured the dealer, with no display of feeling; then to the group around him he announced, shamelessly:  “You got to lead those birds; they fly fast.”

One of Mr. Broad’s boosters, he who had twice won for the Norseman’s benefit, carelessly returned his winnings.  “Sure!” he agreed.  “They got a head like a turtle, them Swedes.”

Mr. Broad carefully smoothed out the two bills and reverently laid them to rest in his bank-roll.  “Yes, and they got bony mouths.  You got to set your hook or it won’t hold.”

“Slow pickin’s,” yawned an honest miner with a pack upon his back.  Attracted by the group at the table, he had dropped out of the procession in the street and had paused long enough to win a bet or two.  Now he straightened himself and stretched his arms.  “These Michael Strogoffs is hep to the old stuff, Lucky.  I’m thinking of joining the big rush.  They say this Klondike is some rich.”

Inasmuch as there were no strangers in sight at the moment, the proprietor of the deadfall gave up barking; he daintily folded and tore in half a cigarette paper, out of which he fashioned a thin smoke for himself.  It was that well-earned moment of repose, that welcome recess from the day’s toil.  Mr. Broad inhaled deeply, then he turned his eyes upon the former speaker.

“You’ve been thinking again, have you?” He frowned darkly.  With a note of warning in his voice he declared:  “You ain’t strong enough for such heavy work, Kid.  That’s why I’ve got you packing hay.”