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Updated: May 25, 2025
"And I have told you I've five hundred that says it's not in that paper," Pentfield answered, at the same time throwing a heavy sack of dust on the table. "I am sorry to take your money," was the retort, as Inwood thrust the newspaper into Pentfield's hand. Pentfield saw, though he could not quite bring himself to believe.
The superintendence of the men and the pursuit of the pay streak could not break the irk of the daily round, and the end of January found him making occasional trips to Dawson, where he could forget his identity for a space at the gambling tables. Because he could afford to lose, he won, and "Pentfield's luck" became a stock phrase among the faro players.
But they rolled out deuce, tray, four, and five a stiff still and no better nor worse than Pentfield's throw. Hutchinson sighed. "Couldn't happen once in a million times," said. "Nor in a million lives," Pentfield added, catching up the dice and quickly throwing them out. Three fives appeared, and, after much delay, he was rewarded by a fourth five on the second shake.
She was all she ought to be, to be Lawrence Pentfield's wife, he wrote. He was enthusiastic, and his letter sent the blood tingling through Pentfield's veins. Other letters followed, one on the heels of another, and sometimes two or three together when the mail lumped up. And they were all in the same tenor.
This same wistfulness was in Pentfield's face, and the groan of it was articulate in the heave of his shoulders. "I dreamed last night I was in Zinkand's," he said. "The music playing, glasses clinking, voices humming, women laughing, and I was ordering eggs yes, sir, eggs, fried and boiled and poached and scrambled, and in all sorts of ways, and downing them as fast as they arrived."
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