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Updated: May 21, 2025
And so saying, he of the white-hat and jeans coat stepped forward to the bar, and placed a couple of dollars upon the counter. All who were near followed him, shouting each out the name of the beverage most to his liking in the various calls of "gin-sling", "cocktail", "cobbler," "julep", "brandy-smash," and such-like interesting mixtures.
"If Mr Hatcher here," continued white-hat, "has no objection to the arrangement, I'll not back out. Doggoned, if I do!" "Oh! I don't care," said Hatcher, in a tone of reckless indifference, "anything to get up a game." Now, I was never fond of gambling, either amateur or otherwise, but circumstances had made me a tolerable whist-player, and I knew there were few who could beat me at it.
There sat he in his loose jeans coat and broad white-hat, talking farmer-like, betting bravely, and altogether a stranger to both banker and croupier! My companion and I regarded each other with a look of surprise. After all, there was nothing to surprise us.
The pork-dealer and his partner seemed to get a little nettled. "It's the cards," said the latter, with an air of pique. "Of coorse it's the cards," repeated white-hat. "Had nothing but darned rubbish since the game begun. Thar again!" "Bad cards again?" inquired his partner with a sombre countenance. "Bad as blazes! couldn't win corn-shucks with 'em."
"And you'll get your needings, too, if you come back, remember that! That's the last of you, and we'll have no more vermin like you. Now see what old Joe Smith, the white-hat prophet, can do for you in the Indian territory!" He stood at the stern of the boat, shivering as he looked at the current, swift, cold, and gray under the sunless sky. He feared some indignity had been offered to his father.
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