It was an incongruous group that sat around the rough pine table in Magpie Simpkins’s cabin, and played pitch by the light of an old smoky kerosene lamp. Magpie Simpkins, six feet two, slender to the point of emaciation, with the face of a scholar above his walrus-like mustache, sat there peering at his cards through the only pair of glasses on Sleeping Creek.…
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