CHAPTER IX.
I SEE THE RING OF THE PERSIAN MAGICIAN.
"That's a devilish fine girl," said Mark Wylder.
He was sitting at this monent on the billiard table, with
his coat off and his cue in his hand, and had lighted a ci-
gar. He and I had just had a game, and were tired of it.
"Who?" I asked. He was looking on me from the
corners of his eyes, and smiling in a sly rakish way that no
man likes in another.
"Radie Lake — she's a splendid girl, by Jove! Don't
you think so? and she liked me once devilish well, I can
tell you. She was thin then, but she has plumped out a
bit, and improved every way."
"Yes, she is — she's very well; but hang it Wylder,
you're a married man now, and must give up talking that
way. People won't like it, you know; they'll take it to
mean more than it does, and you oughtn't. Let us have
another game."
"By-and-by; what do you think of Larkin?" asked
Wylder, with a sly glance from the corners of his eye.
"I think he prays rather more than is good for his cli-
ents; mind I spell it with an ' a,' not with an ' e;'
but hang it, for an attorney, you know, and such a sharp
chap, it does seem to me rather a — a joke, eh?"
"He bears a good character among the townspeople,
dosn't he? And I don't see that it can do him any harm,
remembering that he has a soul to be saved."
"Or the other thing, eh?" laughed Wylder. "But
I think he comes it a little too strong — two sermons last
Sunday, and a prayer meeting at nine o'clock!"
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