high shoulders, the long, pale face, the long, pale
hands, of a cripple. The other, a young man with
a sodden countenance discolored by old purplish
bruises, wore a misfitting suit that drew across
heavy, bowed shoulders, thick, powerful arms. He
regarded Gordon Makimmon with no light dawning
upon his lowering face; no greeting disturbed the
dark, hard line of his mouth. But the other, with
an apparently hearty, stereotyped flow of words, applauded
Gordon's design, approved his qualities of
sportsmanship, courage.

"Give me the man from the woods for an open-handed
sport," he vociferated; "he ain't a fool
neither, he's wise to the time of night. The city
crowd, the wise ones, are the real ringside marks."

"Come up to my room," the woman directed from
the foot of a stairway; "where no amateur John
Condons will tell us how to play our cards. I got
some good liquor, too."

In her room she lit a small lamp, which proved
insufficient, and Mr. Ottinger brought a second from
his quarters. Gordon found himself in a long, narrow
chamber furnished with two wooden beds, two
identical, insecure bureaus, stands with wash basins
and pitchers, and a table. The floor, the walls, the
ceiling, were resinous yellow pine, and gave out a
hot, dry smell from which there was no escape but
the door, for the room was without other outlet.

[[58]]

p057 _ -chap- _ toc-1 _ p058w _ toc-2 _ +chap+ _ p059

v?