The band now began a different strain of dance music.  Neale slowly worked his way around.  At the end of the big tent a wide door opened into another big room—­a dance-hall, full of dancers.

Neale had seen nothing like this in the other construction camps.

A ball was in progress.  Just now it was merry, excited, lively.  Neale got inside and behind the row of crowded benches; he stood up against a post to watch.  Probably two-hundred people were in the hall, most of them sitting.  How singular, it struck Neale, to see good-looking, bare-armed and bare-necked young women dancing there, and dancing well!  There were other women—­painted, hollow-eyed—­sad wrecks of womanhood.  The male dancers were young men, as years counted, mostly unfamiliar with the rhythmic motion of feet to a tune, and they bore the rough stamp of soldiers and laborers.  But there were others, as there had been before the bar, who wore their clothes differently, who had a different poise and swing—­young men, like Neale, whose earlier years had known some of the graces of society.  They did not belong there; the young women did not belong there.  The place seemed unreal.  This was a merry scene, apparently with little sign, at that moment, of what it actually meant.  Neale sensed its undercurrent.

He left the dance-hall.  Of the gambling games, he liked best both to watch and to play poker.  It had interest for him.  The winning or losing of money was not of great moment.  Poker was not all chance or luck, such as the roll of a ball, the turn of a card, or the facing up of dice.  Presently he became one of an interested group round a table watching four men play poker.

One, a gambler in black, immaculate in contrast to his companions, had a white, hard, expressionless face, with eyes of steel and thin lips.  His hands were wonderful.  Probably they never saw the sunlight, certainly no labor.  They were as swift as light, too swift for the glance of an eye.  But when he dealt the cards he was slow, careful, deliberate.  The stakes were gold, and the largest heap lay in front of him.  One of his opponents was a giant of a fellow, young, with hulking shoulders, heated face, and broken nose—­a desperado if Neale ever saw one.  The other two players called this strapping brute Fresno.  The little man with a sallow face like a wolf was evidently too intent on the game to look up.  He appeared to be losing.  Beside his small pile of gold stood an empty tumbler.  The other and last player was a huge, bull-necked man whom Neale had seen before.  It was difficult to place him, but after studying the red cheeks and heavy, drooping mustache, and hearing the loud voice, he recognized him as a boss of graders—­a head boss.  Presently the sallow-faced player called him Mull, and then Neale remembered him well.

Several of the watchers round this table lounged away, leaving a better vantage-place for Neale.

“May I sit in the game?” he inquired, during a deal.