"I mean exactly that." Conniston tossed to the bed a small handful of
greenbacks and silver. "This is all that's left to the firm of
Conniston and Hapgood."

With quick, nervous fingers Hapgood swept up the money and counted it.
His eyes showing the uneasiness within him, he turned to the jubilant
Conniston.

"There are just twenty-seven dollars and sixty cents. Are you drunk?"

Conniston giggled, his amusement swelling in pace with Hapgood's
dawning discomfiture.

"I told you I had made a bet. I have laid a wager with the Fates. And
right now, my dear Roger, while we sit comfortably and smoke and wait,
the Fates are deciding things for us!"

Roger paused, regarding him. "Yes, you're drunk. If you are not, is it
asking too much to suggest that you explain?"

"No. I'll explain. At the sign of the local Whisky Barrel there is a
game of faro now in progress. Two very charming young gentlemen, named
Jimmie and Bart, punchers of cattle, whatever that may be, are
deciding things for Roger Hapgood and William Conniston, Junior, of
New York. Each of the amateur gamblers--and they actually do play very
badly, Roger!--has before him a hundred dollars of my money. If they
win to-night I get back two hundred dollars plus half their winnings,
and you and I take the train for San Francisco!"

"If they win. And if they lose?"