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Updated: July 2, 2025
"You've got the boss; he's crazy about you, but Pierce is mine " "What's that?" It was Phillips who spoke. "What are you saying about me?" Both girls started. Laure turned upon him furiously. "I'm serving notice on this faro-dealer, that's all. But it goes for you, too " Phillips' eyes opened, his face whitened with an emotion neither girl had before seen.
There is an air of easy sociality among the guests at the Brant House, a disposition on the part of all to contribute to the general amusement, that makes a summer sojourn on the beach far more agreeable than in certain larger, more frequented watering-places, where one is always in danger of discovering that the gentlemanly person with whom he has been fraternizing is a faro-dealer, or that the lady who has half-fascinated him is Anonyma herself.
I have been in the newspaper business on this side for fifteen years, and my headquarters are in Paris, where these people are very well known. The man who calls himself 'Chandler Pedlow' was a faro-dealer for Tom Stout in Chicago when Stout's place was broken up, a good many years ago. There was a real Chandler Pedlow in Congress from a California district in the early nineties, but he is dead.
Pulling a heavy sack of gold-dust from his coat pocket, he dropped it on the HIGH CARD. "Fifty," he said. The faro-dealer slipped two cards. The high card won. He scribbled the amount on a pad, and the weigher at the bar balanced fifty dollars' worth of dust in the gold-scales and poured it into Burning Daylight's sack.
The police had no record of him under any alias, and he would have been entered on their report of findings as "unknown," had not the faro-dealer and the lookout both asserted that The Spider had called him Gary in fact had singled him out unmistakenly, asking him what be had to do with the quarrel, which evidently concerned but three of the four men whom The Spider had killed.
"Stand by to receive your dog," was Scott's peremptory order to Cherokee's owner. The faro-dealer stooped down obediently and got a firm hold on Cherokee. "Now!" Scott warned, giving the final pry. The dogs were drawn apart, the bull-dog struggling vigorously. "Take him away," Scott commanded, and Tim Keenan dragged Cherokee back into the crowd.
I was now merely a spectator, and from my couch in the big room I could lie and watch the human interplay with that detached, impassive, impersonal feeling which French writers tell us is so valuable to the litterateur, and American writers to the faro-dealer. "I shall go crazy in this abominable, mee-ser-rhable place!" was Etienne's constant prediction.
"Well, there was the young nobleman, in the winter of '98, Dane, I think fine family and all that big, yellow-haired boy. He wanted to marry her, but a faro-dealer shot him. Then there was Rock, of the mounted police, the finest officer in the service. He was cashiered. She knew he was going to pot for her, but she didn't seem to care and there were others.
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