The man sleeping at the table rose, and, after staring vacantly about him for a moment, walked out slowly into the street. As his friend entered the room Dungaree Bill took one of the "monkeys" from his outstretched hand. They, clinked the glasses together above and below. "Here's luck," said Bill. The other nodded, and they drained the glasses. "Tails curly enough?" asked the red-haired man. "I guess so," said Dungaree, wiping his mouth with the back of his hairy hand. "And now," said he, "for the game." They arranged the cards; Dungaree cut, and the red-haired man dealt. After a few rounds the effect of the drug began to tell. The giant's head sank upon his breast, and the little man's eyes twinkled with a vicious glee. "Wake up, Dungaree," he said; "you're asleep, man." "By God," said the other, "you've----" His head dropped once more, and the long, powerful arms hung listlessly by his side. The red-haired man had started from his seat at Dungaree's words, and in his hand held an open knife, which he had drawn like lightning. He heaved a sigh of relief as he saw Dungaree's head sink back. Then rapidly approaching him, he rifled him with a practised hand. He undid the canvas belt from his waist, and felt it heavy as he raised it and transferred it to his own person. He then moved toward the door, but a sudden thought struck him, and he returned. He took up Dungaree's knife from the table. "Might as well ease him of this," he said; "he will do somebody a hurt when he awakens." Opening the door, he stepped into the barroom, and, reeling up to a table near the door, called for another drink. Kavasji once more turned his back, and with the noiseless rapidity of a cat the robber vanished into the street, which was already beginning to awaken. He dashed down a small alley, and only stopped after he had run for about half an hour. "I guess," said he, "Steve Lamport, you are born again." Then turning down a broad street, he walked slowly forward in the direction of the nearest railway station. CHAPTER VIII. CAST OUT FROM THE FOLD. A council, of which Galbraith was _ex-officio_ president, controlled the affairs of the tabernacle, and adjudicated on all offences committed by members of the congregation against the rules of the body. As far as he was able the pastor tempered the decrees of the council with mercy, and there was yet another thing which made this body weak in comparison with similar institutions in the West. This was the natural shallowness of the East Indian, and his inability to feel or think deeply. In this manner the gloomy tenets of a religious sect, which called themselves the elect of heaven, and condemned all others to eternal torment, were softened.