gentlemen," he added, laying the contents of his buckskin purse upon the
table.
"Hold on, boys," said a quiet voice. It was their host Falloner, who had
just risen and was slipping on his oilskin coat. "You've got enough to
do, I reckon, to look after your own folks. I've none! Let this be my
affair. I've got to go to the Express Office anyhow to see about my
passage home, and I'll just get a draft for a hundred dollars for
that old skeesicks--what's his blamed name? Oh, Ricketts"--he made a
memorandum from the letter--"and I'll send it by express. Meantime, you
fellows sit down there and write something--you know what--saying that
Dick's hurt his hand and can't write--you know; but asked you to send
a draft, which you're doing. Sabe? That's all! I'll skip over to the
express now and get the draft off, and you can mail the letter an hour
later. So put your dust back in your pockets and help yourselves to the
whiskey while I'm gone." He clapped his hat on his head and disappeared.
"There goes a white man, you bet!" said Fletcher admiringly, as the door
closed behind their host. "Now, boys," he added, drawing a chair to the
table, "let's get this yer letter off, and then go back to our game."
Pens and ink were produced, and an animated discussion ensued as to
the matter to be conveyed. Daddy's plea for an extended explanatory and
sympathetic communication was overruled, and the letter was written to
Ricketts on the simple lines suggested by Falloner.
"But what about poor little Jim's letter? That ought to be answered,"
said Daddy pathetically.
"If Dick hurt his hand so he can't write to Ricketts, how in thunder is
he goin' to write to Jim?" was the reply.
"But suthin' oughter be said to the poor kid," urged Daddy piteously.
"Well, write it yourself--you and Gus Houston make up somethin'
together. I'm going to win some money," retorted Fletcher, returning
to the card-table, where he was presently followed by all but Daddy and
Houston.
"Ye can't write it in Dick's name, because that little brother knows
|