bartender Mick, with its stiff unshaven red beard and its single
eye,--merciless as an electric headlight,--its broad flaming scar
leading down from the blank socket of its mate, became less repulsive
under the softened light.

With the coming of Fall frosts, the premonition of Winter, the
frequenters of the place gathered earlier, remained later, emptied more
of the showily labelled bottles behind the bar, and augmented when
possible their well-established reputation for recklessness. About the
soiled tables the fringe of bleared faces and keen hawk-like eyes was
more closely drawn. The dull rattle of poker-chips lasted longer,
frequently far into the night, and even after the tardy light of morning
had come to the rescue of the sputtering stumps in the candlesticks.

On such a morning, early in November, daylight broadened upon a
characteristic scene. Only one table was in use, and around it sat four
men. One by one the other players had cashed out and left the game. One
of them was snoring in a corner, his head resting upon the sawdust.
Another leaned heavily upon the bar, a half-drained glass before him.
Even the four at the table were not as upon the night before. The hands
which held the greasy cards and toyed with the stacks of chips were
steady, but the heads controlling them wavered uncertainly; and the hawk
eyes were bloodshot.

A man with a full beard, roughly trimmed into the travesty of a Vandyke,
was dealing. He tossed out the cards, carefully inclining their faces
downward, and returned the remainder of the pack softly to the table.

"Pass, damn it!" growled the man at the left.