“’Ain’t that great?  Sunday supplements!  Full page!  Big display! eh?’

“It sure was.  ’Bout 9x9, and showing every detail of the Reception saloon.  There was ‘Single Out’ analyzing the cuspidore and ‘Curly’ dozin’, as contorted and well-done as a pretzel.  There was the crowd hiding in the corners, and behind the faro-table stood the kid, one hand among the scattered chips and cards, the other dominating the layout with ‘Curley’s’ ‘six.’  It couldn’t have looked more natural if we’d posed for it.  It was a bully likeness, I thought, too, till I seen myself glaring over the bar.  All that showed of William P. Joyce, bachelor of some arts and plenty of science, late of Dawson, was the white of his eyes.  And talkin’ of white—­say, I looked like I had washing hung out.  Seemed like the draught had riz my hair up, too.

“‘Nothing like it ever seen,’ continues Struthers.  ’I’ll call it ‘The Winning Card,’ or ‘At Bay,’ or something like that.  Feature it as a typical Klondyke card game.  I’ll give you a two-page write-up.  Why, it’s the greatest thing I ever did!’

“‘I’m sorry,’ says Morrow, thoughtful, ‘but you musn’t run it.’

“’What! says he, and I thinks, ’Oh, Lord!  There goes my only show to get perpetufied in ink.’

“‘I can’t let you use it.  My wife might see it.’

“‘Your wife!’ says I.  ‘Are you married, pardner?’

“‘Yes, I’m married,’ and his voice sounded queer.  ’I’ve got a boy—­too, see.’

“He took a locket from his flannel shirt and opened it.  A curly-headed, dimpled little youngster laughed out at me.

“‘Well, I’m d——!’ and then I took off my hat, for in the other side was a woman—­and, gentlemen, she was a woman!  When I seen her it made me feel blushy and ashamed.  Gee!  She was a stunner.  I just stared at her till Struthers looked over my shoulder, and says, excited: 

“‘Why, it’s Olive Troop, the singer!’

“‘Not any more,’ says Morrow, smiling.

“’Oh!  So you’re the fellow she gave up her art for?  I knew her on the stage.’

“Something way deep down in the man grated on me, but the kid was lookin’ at the picture and never noticed, while hunger peered from his face.

“‘You can’t blame me,’ he says finally.  ’She’d worry to death if she saw that picture.  The likeness is too good.  You might substitute another face on my shoulders; that can be done, can’t it?’

“’Why, sure; dead easy, but I’ll not run it at all if you feel that way,’ says the artist.

“Then, Morrow resumes, ’You’ll be in Denver this fall, Struthers, eh?  Well, I want you to take a letter to her.  She’ll be glad to see an old friend like you, and to hear from me.  Tell her I’m well and happy, and that I’ll make a fortune, sure.  Tell her, too, that there won’t be any mail out of here till spring.’

“Now, I don’t claim no second sight in the matter of female features:  I ain’t had no coachin’; not even as much as the ordinary, being raised on a bottle, but I’ve studied the ornery imprints of men’s thoughts, over green tables and gun bar’ls, till I can about guess whether they’ve drawed four aces or an invite to a funeral.  I got another flash from that man I didn’t like, though his words were hearty.  He left, soon after, on the last boat.