"That'll be about all out of you. An' if I was in your boots I wouldn't
go speakin' none frivolous about funerals, neither."

The smile was gone from the steel-grey eyes and the croupier experienced
a sudden chilling in the pit of his stomach.

"Let's get down to cases," the cowpuncher continued. "I kind of got the
Greaser into this here jack-pot an' it's up to me to get him out. He
lays four bits on the thirteen--she pays thirty-five--that's
seventeen-fifty. Eighteen, as she lays. The blame fool leaves it lay
an' she win again--that's thirty-five times eighteen. Good Lord! An'
without no pencil an' paper! We'll cut her up in chunks an' tackle her:
let's see, ten times eighteen is one-eighty, an' three times that
is--three times the hundred is three hundred, and three times the eighty
is two-forty. That's five-forty, an' a half of one-eighty is ninety, an'
five-forty is six-thirty. We'd ort to double it fer interest an'
goodwill, but we'll leave it go at the reglar price. So, just you skin
off six hundred an' thirty bucks, an' eighteen more, an' pass 'em acrost.
An' do it _pronto_ or somethin' might happen to Fatty right where he's
thickest." The cowpuncher emphasized his remarks by boring the muzzle
even deeper into the unctuous periphery of the proprietor. The croupier
shot a questioning glance toward his employer.

"Shell it out! You fool!" grunted that worthy. "Fore this gun comes out
my back. An', besides, it's cocked!" Without a word the croupier
counted out the money, arranging it in little piles of gold and silver.

As the vagabond swept the coins into his battered Stetson the Texan gave
a final twist to the six-gun. "If I was you, Fatty, I'd rub that there