dealer on the Yukon, worked the shift from eight till two. He was
a slender man of thirty, dexterous in movement, slow to smile,
soft of voice, and known as a living flame among women. He had
dealt the biggest games of the early days, and had no enemies.
Yet, though many called him friend, they wondered inwardly.

It was a strong play the Kid had to-night, for Swede Sam, of
Dawson, ventured many stacks of yellow chips, and he was a quick,
aggressive gambler. A Jew sat at the king end with ten neatly
creased one-thousand-dollar bills before him, together with piles
of smaller currency. He adventured viciously and without system,
while outsiders to the number of four or five cut in sporadically
with small bets. The game was difficult to follow; consequently
the lookout, from his raised dais, was leaning forward, chin in
hand, while the group was hedged about by eager on-lookers.

Faro is a closed book to most people, for its intricacies are
confusing. Lucky is he who has never persevered in solving its
mysteries nor speculated upon the "systems" of beating it. From
those who have learned it, the game demands practice, dexterity,
and coolness. The dealer must run the cards, watch the many
shifting bets, handle the neatly piled checks, figure, lightning-
like, the profits and losses. It was his unerring, clock like
regularity in this that had won the Kid his reputation. This night
his powers were taxed. He dealt silently, scowlingly, his long
white fingers nervously caressing the cards.

This preoccupation prevented his noticing the rustle and stir of a
new-comer who had crowded up behind him, until he caught the
wondering glances of those in front and saw that the Israelite was