The Bridgeport evening farmer., 1911-06-29
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 Copyright, 1910, = By Charles Scribner's Sons

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 Judson rose up, jerked his thumb toward the door of the superintend- ent's business office and said, Mac, if the whisky didn't fake the whole busi- ness for me the man who was num- bling with Bart Rufford was Hal- lockr'
 "Hallockr' said McCloskey. "And you said there was a woman in it. That fits down to the ground, John. MT. Lidgerwood has found out some thing about HaIlock's family tear-up, or he's likely to find out. That's what that means"
 What more McCloskey said was said to an otherwise empty room. Judson had opened the door and closed it and was gone.
 Summing up the astounding thing afterward, those who could recall the details and piece them together traced Judson thus:
 It was 10:4O when he came down from McCloskey's office. and for per haps twenty minutes he had been seen lounging at the lunch counter in the station end of the Crows Nest. At about II one witness had seen him striking at the anvil in Hepburn's shop, the town marshal being the town blacksmith in the intervals of official duty.
 Still later he had apparently forgot ten the good resolution declared to Mo Closkey. and all Angels saw him stag gering up and down Mesa avenue, stumbling into and out of the many sa- looms and growing. to all appearances, more hopelessly irresponsible with ev- cry fresh stumble. This was his con- dition when he tripped over the door step into the Arcade and fell full length on the floor of the. barroom Grimsby. the barkeeper, picked him up and tried to send him home; but, with good Iatured and maudlin per tinacity, be insisted on going on to the gambling room in the rear.
 The room was darkened, as befitted its use, and lighted lamp hung over the center of the oval faro table as if the time were midnight instead of mid day. Eight men, five of them miners from the Brewster copper mine and three of them discharged employees of the Red Butte Western, were the bet tors. Redlight himself, in sombrero and shirt sleeves, was dealing, and Rufford, sitting on stool at the ta- ble's end, was the lookout.
 Judson stumbled round the table, los ing his money and dribbling foolish ness. Now, faro is silent game, and more than once an angry voice com manded the foolish one to choose his place and to shut his mouth. But the ex-engineer seemed quite incapable of doing either. Twice he made the wa vering circuit of the oval table, and when he finally gripped an empty chair it was the one nearest to Rufford on the right and diagonally opposite to the dealer.
 e What followed seemed to have no connecting sequence for the other players. Too restless to lose more than one bet in the place he had cho- sen, Judson tried to rise, tangled his feet in the chair and fell down, laugh ing uproariously. When he struggled to the perpendicular again, after two or three intellectual attempts, he was fairly behind Rufford's stool
 r One man, who chanced to be looking, saw the lookout start and stiffen rigidly in his place, staring straight ahead into vacancy. A moment later the entire circle of witnesses saw him take revolver from the holster on his hip and lay it upon the table with an sother from the breast pocket of his coat to keep it company. Then his