"How does it feel to be a whoremonger?" Ab Former<br >sa~d.<br > Faro Blake paused in the act of raking in the last pot<br >of~he evening. He did not stiffen but relaxed into a<br >state of readiness for instant action. The question had<br >been put in a friendly tone， and Fortner--publisher，<br >editor and reportorial staff of the Mundoon Whistle--<br >had been a genial player and had accepted the loss of<br >his modest bets with good grace. But a studied insult，<br >no matter how cheerfully put， could well be the sigilal<br >of a deliberately picked fight. If it came to that， Faro<br >meant to win. On this， his first night in Mundoon~ he<br >had followed his normal procedure of commencing play<br >in a new territo~ fully armed. The tiny Reid s .38<br >knuckleduster-revolver， which had often earned its<br >maker s trade name of "My Friend，" was nested in a<br >fight-hand vest pocket; and the double-barreled shot-<br >gun， barrels and stock truncated so that the whole was<br >little larger than an old-fashioned cavalry pistol， hung<br >in its special sling under his black frock coat.<br > The Reid s was ideal for close-in work against a<br > 7<br ><br >