"Partners, aren't you getting somewhat rough with the little fellow?"
asked a young man in unimpeachable black broadcloth.
"Why, it's Anthony Barstow! Look at the purple raiment! Man, you must
have struck pay dirt."
"Yes, thank you, my claim has turned out to be a rich one. What will you
take for the donk?"
"Help yourself. He's a maverick. What's that? Dog fight? Sic 'im,
Rover!" and the fickle and drink-befuddled mob hurried off down the
street to the newest excitement.
Anthony took half an apple from his pocket. "I was saving it for
tomorrow, but do you think you could manage it, Little Pard?" The long
ears lifted at once, and the soft hairy muzzle took the delicacy
daintily out of his fingers. Anthony petted him and sauntered on, into
the best of the gambling halls. He seated himself at a table presided
over by a woman dealer.
"Monsieur, it is not permitted zat ze gamblair shall play," she told him
courteously, with a flash of very beautiful white teeth.
"Ho! Ho! Barstow," roared Copper-down Hicks.
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