In the excitement, the suspense, I must have made shadows into real substance.

Anyway, there was the half-circle of bearded, swarthy men around Blome's table.

There were the four rustlers--Blome brooding, perhaps vaguely, spiritually, listening to a knock; there was Bo Snecker, reckless youth, fondling a flower he had, putting the stem in his glass, then to his lips, and lastly into the buttonhole of Blome's vest; there was Hilliard, big, gloomy, maybe with his cavernous eyes seeing the hell where I expected he'd soon be; and last, the little dusty, scaly Pickens, who looked about to leap and sting some one.
"In the lull of the general conversation I heard Pickens say: 'Jack, drink up an' come out of it.

Every man has an off day.

You've gambled long enough to know every feller gits called.