A stranger, straight from the East, would have remarked first upon the good music, next upon the good looks of the women, and then upon the shabby clothes of the men—­for some of them were in “mukluk,” others in sweaters with huge initials and winged emblems, and all were collarless.

Outside in the main gambling-room there were but few women.  Men crowded in dense masses about the faro lay-out, the wheel, craps, the Klondike game, pangingi, and the card-tables.  They talked of business, of home, of women, bought and sold mines, and bartered all things from hams to honor.  The groomed and clean, the unkempt and filthy jostled shoulder to shoulder, equally affected by the license of the goldfields and the exhilaration of the New.  The mystery of the North had touched them all.  The glad, bright wine of adventure filled their veins, and they spoke mightily of things they had resolved to do, or recounted with simple diffidence the strange stories of their accomplishment.

The “Bronco Kid,” familiar from Atlin to Nome as the best “bank” dealer on the Yukon, worked the shift from eight till two.  He was a slender man of thirty, dexterous in movement, slow to smile, soft of voice, and known as a living flame among women.  He had dealt the biggest games of the early days, and had no enemies.  Yet, though many called him friend, they wondered inwardly.

It was a strong play the Kid had to-night, for Swede Sam, of Dawson, ventured many stacks of yellow chips, and he was a quick, aggressive gambler.  A Jew sat at the king end with ten neatly creased one-thousand-dollar bills before him, together with piles of smaller currency.  He adventured viciously and without system, while outsiders to the number of four or five cut in sporadically with small bets.  The game was difficult to follow; consequently the lookout, from his raised dais, was leaning forward, chin in hand, while the group was hedged about by eager on-lookers.

Faro is a closed book to most people, for its intricacies are confusing.  Lucky is he who has never persevered in solving its mysteries nor speculated upon the “systems” of beating it.  From those who have learned it, the game demands practice, dexterity, and coolness.  The dealer must run the cards, watch the many shifting bets, handle the neatly piled checks, figure, lightning-like, the profits and losses.  It was his unerring, clock like regularity in this that had won the Kid his reputation.  This night his powers were taxed.  He dealt silently, scowlingly, his long white fingers nervously caressing the cards.

This preoccupation prevented his noticing the rustle and stir of a new-comer who had crowded up behind him, until he caught the wondering glances of those in front and saw that the Israelite was staring past him, his money forgotten, his eyes beady and sharp, his rat-like teeth showing in a grin of admiration.  Swede Sam glared from under his unkempt shock and felt uncertainly towards the open collar of his flannel shirt where a kerchief should have been.  The men who were standing gazed at the new-comer, some with surprise, others with a half smile of recognition.