In the clear space, Jim Bardlock was
standing with sheepishly hanging head, and between him and Harkless were
the two gamblers of the walnut shells. The journalist held in his hand the
implements of their profession.
"Give it all up," he was saying in his steady voice. "You've taken eighty-
six dollars from this boy. Hand it over."
The men began to edge closer to the crowd, giving little, swift,
desperate, searching looks from left to right, and right to left, moving
nervously about, like weasels in a trap. "Close up there tight," said
Harkless, sharply. "Don't let them out."
"W'y can't we git no square treatment here?" one of the gamblers whined;
but his eyes, blazing with rage, belied the plaintive passivity of his
tone. "We been running no skin. Wy d'ye say we gotter give up our own
money? You gotter prove it was a skin. We risked our money fair."
"Prove it! Come up here, Eph Watts. Friends," the editor turned to the
crowd, smiling, "friends, here's a man we ran out of town once, because he
knew too much about things of this sort. He's come back to us again and
he's here to stay. He'll give us an object-lesson on the shell game."
"It's pretty simple," remarked Mr. Watts. "The best way is to pick up the
ball with your second finger and the back part of your thumb as you
pretend to lay the shell down over it: this way.
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