night. You see a cabin. The window is lighted. You look through
the window for one second, or for two seconds, you see something,
and you go on your way. You saw maybe a man writing a letter. You
saw something without beginning or end. Nothing happened. Yet it
was a bit of life you saw. You remember it afterward. It is like
a picture in your memory. The window is the frame of the picture."

I could see that he was interested, and I knew that as I spoke he
had looked through the window and seen the man writing the letter.

"There is a picture you have painted that I understand," he said.
"It is a true picture. It has much meaning. It is in your cabin
at Dawson. It is a faro table. There are men playing. It is a
large game. The limit is off."

"How do you know the limit is off?" I broke in excitedly, for here
was where my work could be tried out on an unbiassed judge who knew
life only, and not art, and who was a sheer master of reality.
Also, I was very proud of that particular piece of work. I had
named it "The Last Turn," and I believed it to be one of the best
things I had ever done.

"There are no chips on the table", Sitka Charley explained. "The
men are playing with markers. That means the roof is the limit.
One man play yellow markers - maybe one yellow marker worth one
thousand dollars, maybe two thousand dollars. One man play red
markers. Maybe they are worth five hundred dollars, maybe one
thousand dollars. It is a very big game. Everybody play very
high, up to the roof. How do I know? You make the dealer with
blood little bit warm in face." (I was delighted.) "The lookout,