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And, said the Virginian, if Essexs play got next her too near, I reckon shed have stacked the cyards. Say, d yu remember Shakespeares fat man? Falstaff? Oh, yes, indeed. Aint that grand? Why, he makes men talk the way they do in life. I reckon he couldnt get printed to-day. Its a right down shame Shakespeare couldnt know about poker. Hed have had Falstaff playing all day at that Tearsheet outfit. And the Prince would have beat him. The Prince had the brains, said I. Brains? Well, didnt he? I neveh thought to notice. Like as not he did. And Falstaff didnt, I suppose? Oh, yes, seh! Falstaff could have played whist. I suppose you know what youre talking about; I dont, said I, for he was drawling again. The cow-punchers eye rested a moment amiably upon me. You can play whist with your brains, he mused,--brains and cyards. Now cyards are only one o the manifestations of poker in this hyeh world. One o the shapes yu fool with it in when the days work is oveh. If a man is built like that Prince boy was built (and its away down deep beyond brains), hell play winnin poker with whatever hand hes holdin when the trouble begins. Maybe it will be a mean, triflin army, or an empty six-shooter, or a lame hawss, or maybe just nothin but his natural countenance. Most any old thing will do for a fello like that Prince boy to play poker with. Then Id be grateful for your definition of poker, said I. Again the Virginian looked me over amiably. You put up a mighty pretty game o whist yourself, he remarked. Dont that give you the contented spirit? And before I had any reply to this, the Christian Endeavor began to come over the bridge. Three instalments crossed the Missouri from Pacific Junction, bound for Pikes Peak, every car swathed in bright bunting, and at each window a Christian with a handkerchief, joyously shrieking. Then the cattle trains got the open signal, and I jumped off. Tell the Judge the steers was all right this far, said the Virginian. That was the last of the deputy foreman for a while. |
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