“Where’s Ancliffe?” asked Hough, addressing Stanton.  She pointed, and Hough left them.

“Neale, you’re new here,” affirmed the woman, rather curiously.

“Didn’t I look like it?  I can’t forget what that girl said,” replied Neale.

“Tell me.”

“She asked me what in the hell I came here for.  And she called me—­”

“Oh, I heard what Ruby called you.  It’s a wonder it wasn’t worse.  She can swear like a trooper.  The men are mad over Ruby.  It’d be just like her to fall in love with you for snubbing her.”

“I hope she doesn’t,” replied Neale, constrainedly.

“May I ask—­what did you come here for?”

“You mean here to your dance-hall?  Why, Hough brought me.  I met him.  We played cards and—­”

“No.  I mean what brought you to Benton?”

“I just drifted here ....  I’m looking for a—­a lost friend,” said Neale.

“No work?  But you’re no spiker or capper or boss.  I know that sort.  And I can spot a gambler a mile.  The whole world meets out here in Benton.  But not many young men like you wander into my place.”

“Like me?  How so?”

“The men here are wolves on the scent for flesh; like bandits on the trail of gold....  But you—­you’re like my friend Ancliffe.”

“Who is he?” asked Neale, politely.

“Who is he?  God only knows.  But he’s an Englishman and a gentleman.  It’s a pity men like Ancliffe and you drift out here.”

She spoke seriously.  She had the accent and manner of breeding.

“Why, Miss Stanton?” inquired Neale.  He was finding another woman here and it was interesting to him.

“Because it means wasted life.  You don’t work.  You’re not crooked.  You can’t do any good.  And only a knife in the back or a bullet from some drunken bully’s gun awaits you.”

“That isn’t a very hopeful outlook, I’ll admit,” replied Neale, thoughtfully.

At this point Hough returned with a pale, slender man whose clothes and gait were not American.  He introduced him as Ancliffe.  Neale felt another accession of interest.  Benton might be hell, but he was meeting new types of men and women.  Ancliffe was fair; he had a handsome face that held a story, and tired blue eyes that looked out upon the world wearily and mildly, without curiosity and without hope.  An Englishman of broken fortunes.

“Just arrived, eh?” he said to Neale.  “Rather jolly here, don’t you think?”

“A fellow’s not going to stagnate in Benton,” replied Neale.

“Not while he’s alive,” interposed Stanton.

“Miss Stanton, that idea seems to persist with you—­the brevity of life,” said Neale, smiling.  “What are the average days for a mortal in this bloody Benton?”

“Days!  You mean hours.  I call the night blessed that some one is not dragged out of my place.  And I don’t sell drinks....  I’ve saved Ancliffe’s life nine times I know of.  Either he hasn’t any sense or he wants to get killed.”