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Updated: May 22, 2025
"If you're going to town, I'd be obliged if you mail this." "I sure will." Daylight put it into his coat pocket. "Do you live hereabouts, stranger?" But the little man did not answer. He was gazing at Daylight in a surprised and steadfast fashion. "I know you," the little man announced. "You're Elam Harnish Burning Daylight, the papers call you. Am I right?" Daylight nodded.
"And you are the man to do it, Mr. Harnish. They are bound to think you are on your own, and their shears are all sharpened for the trimming of newcomers like you." "They will certainly be misled," Letton agreed, his eerie gray eyes blazing out from the voluminous folds of the huge Mueller with which he was swathing his neck to the ears. "Their minds run in ruts.
Elam Harnish dropped into the waiting chair, started to pull out his gold-sack, and changed his mind. The Virgin pouted a moment, then followed in the wake of the other dancers. "I'll bring you a sandwich, Daylight," she called back over her shoulder. He nodded. She was smiling her forgiveness. He had escaped the apron-string, and without hurting her feelings too severely.
As I said before, a million out one way or the other won't matter, it's bound to be such an almighty big winning." By this time Letton was stiffened by the attitude Dowsett had taken, and his answer was prompt and definite. "I fear you are under a misapprehension, Mr. Harnish. There are no winnings to be divided with you. Now don't get excited, I beg of you. I have but to press this button..."
"Let's play markers," he suggested. "Chips do everlastingly clutter up the table....If it's agreeable to you-all?" "I'm willing," answered Hal Campbell. "Let mine run at five hundred." "Mine, too," answered Harnish, while the others stated the values they put on their own markers, French Louis, the most modest, issuing his at a hundred dollars each.
"Of course, you understand, Mr. Harnish, the absolute need for keeping our alliance in the dark," Nathaniel Letton warned gravely. Daylight nodded his head. "And you also understand," Letton went on, "that the result can only be productive of good. The thing is legitimate and right, and the only ones who may be hurt are the stock gamblers themselves. It is not an attempt to smash the market.
Then, if the strike came on the Stewart, he would be well in on it with the Elam Harnish town site; if on the Klondike, he would not be quite out of it. In the meantime, he would gather strength. He stretched out on the ice full length, face downward, and for half an hour he lay and rested. Then he arose, shook the flashing blindness from his eyes, and took hold of the boat.
So it must be with the man who builds a house or plants a tree. He can look at it. He made it. It's his handiwork. Even if somebody like you comes along and takes his tree away from him, still it is there, and still did he make it. You can't rob him of that, Mr. Harnish, with all your millions. It's the creative joy, and it's a higher joy than mere gambling.
Kearns asked of MacDonald. "Got enough," was the reply. "You can draw if you want to, you know," Kearns warned him. "Nope; this'll do me." Kearns himself drew two cards, but did not look at them. Still Harnish let his cards lie. "I never bet in the teeth of a pat hand," he said slowly, looking at the saloon-keeper. "You-all start her rolling, Mac."
A man was good in a game for all that he possessed, no matter where his possessions were or what was their nature. Harnish cut and got the deal. At this good augury, and while shuffling the deck, he called to the barkeepers to set up the drinks for the house.
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