"'The races is over for the season. It's the first snow of winter on
the ground, when our sport comes trailin' in to make his annyooal
camp. He's about six thousand dollars strong; for, as I states, he
picks bosses right. An' he's been thinkin', too; this yere sport I'm
relatin' of. He's been roominatin' the baleful effects of faro-bank
in his speshul case. He knows it's no use him sayin' he wont buck
the game. This person's made them vows before. An' they holds him
about like cobwebs holds a cow--lasts about as long as a drink of
whiskey. He's bound, in the very irreg'larities of his nacher, an'
the deadly idleness of a winter with nothin' to do but think, to go
to transactin' faro-bank. An', as a high-steppin' patriot once says,
"jedgin' of the footure by the past," our sport's goin' to be
skinned alive--chewed up--compared to him a Digger Injun will loom
up in the matter of finance like a Steve Girard. An' he knows it.
Wherefore this yere crafty sharp starts in to cinch a play; starts
in to defy fate, an' rope up an' brand the footure, for at least six
months to come. An', jest as I argues, Destiny accepts the challenge
of this vainglorious sharp; acccepts it with a grin.
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