The youth turned on him fiercely, his somewhat weak chin quivering. “That’s all right for you to say!” he spoke, in a shaking voice—a voice that struck straight to Frank Merriwell’s heart. “What do you care for me now! You brought me here, and——” “You wanted to come. Don’t squeal like a sick baby!” “You brought me here,” repeated the youth, “and I’ve lost a fortune in this accursed place! I’m ruined! It’s worse than that! I’m a criminal, for I’ve gambled away thousands that did not belong to me! It will kill my poor mother!” It was the remorseful cry of a weak, heart-sick youth who realized when too late the folly of his acts. Frank quietly took a step nearer the three. “I never thought you a welcher!” exclaimed the man, giving the pale-faced lad a look of reproach. “I did think you had nerve.” “Nerve! Bah! It’s the fool who has nerve to sit at a gambling-table and play away money he does not own! Nerve! That is a false appearance, assumed to make other men regard you with admiration. But what does it amount to when a man has made a criminal of himself? What does it amount to when he knows the hand of the law will be outstretched to grasp him and drag him to a prison cell? What does it amount to when he knows that the result of his madness and folly will be the shameful death of his poor old mother, who has been so proud of him—who believed him good, and true, and honest? Don’t talk to me about welching! What is the difference now if I do squeal? I’m done for!” Frank saw a shaking hand fumble at a pocket, and he stood ready to make a spring. “This cursed place has ruined me, just as it has ruined hundreds before!” the youth went on. “It is run under police and political protection! Some of my money, some that I took without permit and lost here to-night, will be paid into the hands of men elected to offices of trust by the people. But for the silence of those men, this place could not run.” “You’re ratty, Harry; come out of it. Let’s get out into the air. You need it to brace you up.” “Hold on!” cried the lad, drawing back and flinging off their hands. “Don’t touch me! I’m not going yet! What is my life to me now! I may be able to call attention to this place and force public opinion to close it. Perhaps in that way I’ll save some other poor fool who might be lured here to his destruction. The disgrace will force Canfield to close! The notoriety will shut his doors. When I leave this place I’ll be carried out—feet first!” His hand came from his pocket with a jerk, and he placed a shining revolver at his head, leaping backward to escape their hands. In another moment he would have fallen dead or dying, but Frank had suspected his design, and was on the watch for that move. The youth sprang back into Merry’s arms, and the hand of the young Yale athlete closed on the revolver. The nerve-broken young gambler was like a helpless child in the hands of Merriwell. With ease Frank took away the deadly revolver.