Dunk wheeled furiously upon him.

"You're playing a high hand for a forty-dollar man," he grated, "and
you've about reached your limit. The stakes are beyond your reach,
my friend."

Chip went white with anger at the thrust, which struck deeper than Dunk
knew. But he stood his ground.

"Ye--es? Wait till the cards are all turned." It turned him sick,
though, the emptiness of the boast. It was such a pitiful, ghastly
bluff--for the cards were all against him, and he knew it. A man in
Gilroy, Ohio, would take the trick which decided the game. Hearts
were trumps, and Dr. Cecil Granthum had the ace.

The little senator got out of his chair and faced Chip tactfully.

"Kid Bennett, you rascal, aren't you going to shake hands?" His own
was outstretched, waiting.

Chip crowded several hot words off his tongue, and gave up his hand for
a temporary pump handle.

"How do you do, Blake? I didn't think you'd remember me."

"You didn't? How could I help it? I can feel the cold of the water
yet, and your rope settling over my shoulders. You never gave me a
chance to say 'God bless you' for that; you just coiled up your rope--
swearing all the time you did it, because it was wet--and rode off,