Yere's what he
does, an' yere's what comes to pass. "'Our wise, forethoughtful
sport seeks out the robber who keeps the tavern. "The ponies will be
back in May," says he, "an' I'm perishin' of cur'osity to know how
much money you demands to feed an' sleep me till then." The tavern
man names the bundle, an' the thoughtful sport makes good. Then he
stiffens the barkeep for about ten drinks a day ontil the advent of
them ponies. Followin' which, he searches out a tailor shop an'
accoomulates a libh'ral trousseau, an' has it packed down to the
tavern an' filed away in his rooms. "Thar!" he says; "which I
reckons now I'm strong enough to go the distance. Not even a brace
game of faro-bank, nor yet any sim'lar dead-fall, prevails ag'inst
me. I flatters myse'f; for onct in a way, I've organized my
destinies so that, for six months at least, they've done got to run
troo." "'It's after supper; our sport, who's been so busy all day
treein' the chances an' runnin' of 'em out on a limb, is loafin'
about the bar. O'casionally he congratulates himse'f on havin' a
long head like a mule; then ag'in he oneasily reverts to the faro
game that's tossin' an' heavin' with all sorts o' good an' bad luck
jest across the street.
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