Among those standing at the bar, and looking out of bleared eyes at a
flashy lithograph tacked upon the wall which pictured a Spanish woman
in short skirts and advertised "Espaniola Cigaroos," were two miners:
one with curly hair and a pink-and-white complexion; the other, tall,
loose-limbed and good-natured looking. They were known respectively as
Handsome Charlie and Happy Halliday, and had been arguing in a maudlin
fashion over the relative merits of Spanish and American beauties. The
moment the song was concluded they banged their glasses significantly
on the bar; but since it was an unbroken rule of the house that at the
close of the musician's performance he should be rewarded by a drink,
which was always passed up to him, they needs must wait. The little
barkeeper paid no attention to their demands until he had satisfied
the thirst of the old concertina player who, presently, could be seen
drawing aside the bear-pelt curtain and passing through the small,
square opening of the partition which separated the Polka Saloon from
its dance-hall.

"Not goin', old Dooda Day, are you?" The question, almost a bellow,
which, needless to say, was unanswered, came from Sonora Slim who, with
his great pal Trinidad Joe, was playing faro at a table on one side of
the room. Apparently, both were losing steadily to the dealer whose
chair, placed up against the pine-boarded wall, was slightly raised
above the floor. This last individual was as fat and unctuous looking as
his confederate, the Look-out, was thin and sneaky; moreover, he bore
the sobriquet of The Sidney Duck and, obviously, was from Australia.

"Say, what did the last eight do?" Sonora now asked, turning to the
case-keeper.

"Lose."