"Well, now see here, Hampton, we don't want no trouble in this shebang." "I 'm not here seeking a fight, Jim," returned the inquirer, genially.
"I merely wish to ask 'Red' an unimportant question or two." "He's there in the back room, I reckon, but he's damn liable to take a pot shot at you when you go in." Hampton's genial smile only broadened, as he carelessly rolled an unlighted cigar between his lips.
"It seems to me you are becoming rather nervous for this line of business, Jim.

You should take a good walk in the fresh air every morning, and let up on the liquor.

I assure you, Mr.Slavin is one of my most devoted friends, and is of that tender disposition he would not willingly injure a fly." He walked to the door, flung it swiftly and silently open, and stepping within, closed it behind him with his left hand.

In the other glittered the steel-blue barrel of a drawn revolver.
"Slavin, sit down!" The terse, imperative words seemed fairly to cut the air, and the red-bearded gambler, who had half risen to his feet, an oath upon his lips, sank back into his seat, staring at the apparition confronting him as if fascinated.

Hampton jerked a chair up to the opposite side of the small table, and planted himself on it, his eyes never once deserting the big gambler's face.
"Put your hands on the table, and keep them there!" he said.