"Me?" said Hanson, expanding his chest. "I feel like I was about
sixteen. Like I was home in Kaintucky, jumping a six-bar fence after a
breakfast of about fifty buckwheat cakes and syrup."

"That's the way it takes them all; but you just wait until about noon,
and you won't feel so gay," warned Jimmy. "What are you doin' to-day,
anyway, hunting more trouble?"

"Not me," cried the other. "I came here to the desert pearl fishing."

"That's a good one." Jimmy's chuckle expanded into a series. "But you
ain't the only one. There's Bob Flick, for instance, as you discovered
last night."

The smile went out of Hanson's eyes, his face set. He ceased to lounge
against the bar and involuntarily straightened himself:

"What about Bob Flick?" he asked.

"Lots about Bob." Jimmy's tone was equable, but he shot Hanson a quick
glance. "He was our faro dealer for a while, but he's interested in
mines now. He's dead sure. Come to think of it, he's a lot of dead
things," he mused; "but don't ever confuse him with a dead one." Delight
at his own wit expressed itself in mirthful chuckles. "He's dead game,
and he's a dead shot, two important things for a man that's playing to
win when in certain localities, and he's dead certain that he's the
God-appointed guardeen of the Black Pearl."

"What's she got to say about it?" growled Hanson.