"The strange part of it," he thought, as he watched the bartender open
his bottle of beer, "is where they get so much money! Do they make it
out of sand?"

He invited the bartender to drink with him, chatted a moment, and then
strolled over to the table. The dealer, a thick-set, fat-fingered,
grave-eyed man who moved like a piece of machinery, glanced up at him
and back to his game. There was no "lookout." A man whom he had not
seen before, deft-fingered and alert, was keeping cases. The
proprietor of the hotel, the three cowboys, and one other man were
playing.

Familiar with the greater number of common ways of separating oneself
from his money, Conniston was no stranger to the ways of faro. He
watched the fat fingers of the banker as they slipped card after card
from the box, and smiled to himself at the fellow's slowness. And
before half a dozen plays were made his smile was succeeded by a
little shock of surprise. It certainly did not do to judge people out
here in a flash and by external signs. What seemed awkwardness a
moment ago was now perfected, automatic skill.

The hotel man won and lost, his face always inscrutable, tilted
sidewise as he closed one eye against the up-curling smoke from the
cigar which he turned round and round between his pursed lips. He had
in front of him a stack of ten or twelve twenty-dollar gold pieces
which his fingers continually moved and shifted, breaking them into
several smaller stacks, bringing them together again, slipping one
over another, gathering them into one stack, breaking them down again,
so that the golden disks gave out the low musical clink which rose at
all times faint and clear through the few short-spoken words. And