"Then I wouldn't a'
caught that fourth queen. Now I've got to take Billy Rawlins'
mail contract and mush for Dyea. What's the size of the
killing, Jack?"
Kearns attempted to count the pot, but was too excited. Daylight
drew it across to him, with firm fingers separating and stacking
the markers and I.O.U.'s and with clear brain adding the sum.
"One hundred and twenty-seven thousand," he announced. "You-all
can sell out now, Jack, and head for home."
The winner smiled and nodded, but seemed incapable of speech.
"I'd shout the drinks," MacDonald said, "only the house don't
belong to me any more."
"Yes, it does," Kearns replied, first wetting his lips with his
tongue. "Your note's good for any length of time. But the
drinks are on me."
"Name your snake-juice, you-all--the winner pays!" Daylight called
out loudly to all about him, at the same time rising from his chair
and catching the Virgin by the arm. "Come on for a reel, you-all
dancers. The night's young yet, and it's Helen Breakfast and the
mail contract for me in the morning. Here, you-all Rawlins, you--I
hereby do take over that same contract, and I start for salt water
at nine A.
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