Duff always dressed well--with a foundation of the late styles of the east, with something of the swagger of the plains added to his raiment.
"Stranger, you might as well hand me your money now," drawled Duff, after a few moments had passed.

"It'll save time." "Your fly hasn't hopped yet," retorted the second man, with the air and tone of one who could afford to lose thousands on such stupid bets.
The second man was of the kind on which Jim Duff fattened his purse.
Clarence Farnsworth, about twenty-five years of age, was as verdant a "tenderfoot" as had lately graced Paloma, Arizona, with his presence.
Even the name of Clarence had moved so many men to laughter in this sweltering little desert town that Farnsworth had lately chopped his name to "Clare." Yet this latter had proved even worse; it sounded too nearly like a girl's name.
So far as his financial condition went, Clarence had the look of one who possessed money to spend.

He was well-dressed, lived at the Mansion House, often hired automobiles, entertained his friends lavishly, and was voted a good enough fellow, though a simpleton.
"My fly's growing skittish, stranger," smiled Jim Duff.

"He's on the point of moving.

You'd better whisper to your fly." "I believe, friend," rejoined Clarence, "that my fly is taking nap.