As I watched a game my first night in Butte, a seedy, torn-out looking chap stepped up to the layout and made a bet. He won it, and, expertly shifting his checks about, won a dozen more bets before the deal closed. “Gimme money,” he said to the dealer, pushing his checks in, “I’m going to get dressed up this time.” He took off his rusty derby hat and tore the crown out of it. Putting his hands behind him, he grasped the tails of his frock coat and with a jerk ripped it up the back clear to the collar. Money in hand he sought the all-night store, and came back in an hour, spick and span from head to heel.

I experimented and soon laid a solid foundation for the faro-bank habit which fastened on me later and kept me broke for years.

Another night a player at the table who had lost steadily for an hour placed his last stack of checks on a card, saying to the dealer, “Turn the cards, Sam, that’s the last button on Gabe’s coat.” The cards were turned and the player lost.