bet you a cool hundred that you can't call it th' third time. It's th' quickness of my hands agin yore eyes—an' you can't beat me three straight. Make it a hundred? I hate to play all day."
"I 'll lay you my winnings an' have some more of yore money," replied the puncher, feverishly. "Ain't scared, are you?"
"Don't know what it means to be scared," laughed the other. "But I ain't got no small change, nothin' but tens. Play a hundred an' let's have some real excitement."
"Nope; eight or nothin'."
He won again. "Now, sixteen even. Come on; I 've got you beat."
"But what's th' use of stringin' 'long like that?" demanded the shell-man.
"Gimme a chance to get my hand in, won't you?" retorted the puncher.
"Well, all right," replied the gambler, and he lost the sixteen.
"Now thirty," suggested the puncher. "Next time all I 've got, every red cent. Once more
