"Well, I'm glad you're honest enough to admit it, anyhow," Mrs. Ellison said. "What kind of a game did you lose on? They're all crooked, they tell me."
"A kind of a game of checkers," Tom replied, his eyes still fixed straight ahead on nothing but the kitchen wall that anybody but himself could see. What he saw was another thing.
"One of the biggest fool, triflin' games of all," Mrs. Ellison commented with the decisiveness of authority. "I'm surprised at you, Tom Simpson!"
"The game is played," said Tom, not turning from his concentrated staring for even one wink, "on small oblongs of land called city lots. A fellow puts his money down on them, expecting to make a quick move that will bring him out winner—then he goes to see his uncle, Blitz."
"I heard about that real estate boom in Kansas City," Mrs. Ellison said, nodding, fully enlightened now. "My sister in Lexington wrote to me about it—her husband's been dabblin' around in it expectin' to make a fortune."
"There's a large hole in the bottom of it now," Tom said.
"I suppose that Blitz man's got everything you own—you gambled down to the last dollar you could rake and scrape, I reckon, like a man will do."
"No," said Tom, looking at her with a lively light in his eyes, "my trunk and all my gay, as well as somber, apparel is being retained by a dear humanitarian for certain arrears in room rent. I hope to be able to recover it from her, but"
