"I want Babe and Betsy. Where's that little pale printer's devil, the one they call the gambler's ghost? I know Sam won't let you girls leave here."
"He's workin' up on the paper, I guess. They ran out of coal oil and had to fire up with pine knots."
"He's comin, now. He ain't no gambler's ghost tonight, though; he's pot black!"
"Ghost," said Curly, "you take this around to Allie." It was a $50 octagonal slug.
"And you say that there's more, all she wants, where that comes from."
Then, shaking his mop of brown, curly hair as though to relieve his head of a burden, he took the girls for what he felt was a much-needed round of drinks.
By midnight the place was wild!
"Sam," shouted Curly, "what's the limit on your pesky old game?"