her hands, when he arrived. He could see her through the open half-
window of the lean-to, so he came to the window, thrust his head and
shoulders in and coughed.

Donna raised her head and gazed into the face of the worst man in San
Pasqual!

This peculiarly distinguished individual was Mr. Harley P. Hennage, the
proprietor of a faro game in the Silver Dollar saloon. He had an
impassive, almost dull, face (accentuated, perhaps, from much playing
of poker in early life) which, at times, would light up with the shy
smile of a trustful child, revealing three magnificent golden upper
teeth. He bore no more resemblance to the popular conception of a
western gambler than does a college professor to a coal passer. Mr.
Hennage lived in his shirtsleeves, paid cash and hated jewelry. He had
never been known to carry a derringer or a small, genteel, silver-
plated revolver in his waist-coat pocket. Neither did he appear in
public with a bowie knife down his bootleg. Not being a Mexican, he did
not carry a knife, and besides he always wore congress gaiters. Owing
to the fact that he was a large florid sandy person, with a freckled
bristly neck and a singularly direct fearless manner of looking at his
man with eyes that were small, sunken, baleful and rather piggy, the
exigencies of Mr. Hennage's profession had never even warranted
recourse to his two most priceless possessions--his hands. Yet, despite
this fact, and the further fact that he had never accomplished anything
more reprehensible than staking his coin against that of his neighbor,
Mr. Hennage had acquired the reputation of being the worst man in San
Pasqual. In the language of the country, he was a hard _hombre,_
for he looked it. When one gazed at Mr. Hennage he observed a human
bulldog, a man who would finish anything he started. Hence, he was