"On the table," said one of them, and they deposited him there among
the litter of his unprofitable books and papers.
"Yance thinks a lot of a pair of deuces when he's liquored up," sighed
the sheriff reflectively.
"Too much," said the gay attorney. "A man has no business to play
poker who drinks as much as he does. I wonder how much he dropped
to-night."
"Close to two hundred. What I wonder is whar he got it. Yance ain't
had a cent fur over a month, I know."
"Struck a client, maybe. Well, let's get home before daylight. He'll
be all right when he wakes up, except for a sort of beehive about the
cranium."
The gang slipped away through the early morning twilight. The next
eye to gaze upon the miserable Goree was the orb of day. He peered
through the uncurtained window, first deluging the sleeper in a flood
of faint gold, but soon pouring upon the mottled red of his flesh a
searching, white, summer heat. Goree stirred, half unconsciously,
among the table's debris, and turned his face from the window. His
movement dislodged a heavy law book, which crashed upon the floor.
Opening his eyes, he saw, bending over him, a man in a black frock
coat. Looking higher, he discovered a well-worn silk hat, and beneath
it the kindly, smooth face of Colonel Abner Coltrane.
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