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"It ain't Commonwealth Avenue, but it's got Fillmore Street beat a mile. There ain't no whistles hereto get you out of bed at six a.m., for one thing. There ain't no geezers, like Walters, to nag you 'round all day long. What's the matter with it?" Something in Lise's voice roused Janet's spirit to battle. "What's the matter with it?" she cried. "It's hell that's the matter with it.
"It ain't Commonwealth Avenue, but it's got Fillmore Street beat a mile. There ain't no whistles hereto get you out of bed at six a.m., for one thing. There ain't no geezers, like Walters, to nag you 'round all day long. What's the matter with it?" Something in Lise's voice roused Janet's spirit to battle. "What's the matter with it?" she cried. "It's hell that's the matter with it.
"Hell is sure cluttered with geezers that played systems," he exposited, as the keeper raked the table. From idly watching, Smoke became fascinated, following closely every detail of the game from the whirling of the ball to the making and the paying of the bets. He made no plays, however, merely contenting himself with looking on.
"It ain't Commonwealth Avenue, but it's got Fillmore Street beat a mile. There ain't no whistles hereto get you out of bed at six a.m., for one thing. There ain't no geezers, like Walters, to nag you 'round all day long. What's the matter with it?" Something in Lise's voice roused Janet's spirit to battle. "What's the matter with it?" she cried. "It's hell that's the matter with it.
When they eat they give me my lunch off to one side, or afterward. No family party like with Hall an' HIS kind. An' that crowd to-day, why, they just naturally didn't have no lunch for me at all. After this, always, you make me up my own lunch. I won't be be holdin' to 'em for nothin', the damned geezers. An' you'd a-died to seen one of 'em try to give me a tip.
Supper over, on motion of Lee Skeats the Cross Cañonites had adjourned to the feed corral and gone into executive session. Lee called the meeting to order. "Fellers," he said, "that dod-burned show makes my back tired. A few geezers an' gals flipfloopin' in swings an' a bunch o' dead ones on ol' broad-backed work hosses that calls theirselves riders!
There 's no use in playing any race unless you 've got some information. These geezers that play every race go broke. But it's an easy game to beat if you just stay off till you 're next to something good, and then plug it hard. Why, if I could shake the faro-bank and crap-game, I 'd have money to burn ice with.
Shorty shook his head indignantly, as he spread his chips out in the vicinities of "3," "11," and "17," and tossed a spare chip on the green. "Hell is sure cluttered with geezers that played systems," he exposited, as the keeper raked the table.
Smoke argued. "As good as the next geezers." "But not as good as the bank's." "Wait and see," Shorty urged. "Now! Let her go!" The game-keeper had just sent the little ivory ball whirling around the smooth rim above the revolving, many-slotted wheel. Smoke, at the lower end of the table, reached over a player, and blindly tossed the dollar.
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