"Yes, if there is a virtuous lack of wine, such as must have been the case tonight." He continued to stand, holding a strap, and meditating upon future procedure, for there was a purpose in the cordiality with which he had greeted the minister, a purpose now fully developed. "By the way, I must come down again tonight—am going home to get some money. Late this evening I received a note, telling me that a friend of mine, a divinity student, was exceedingly ill. I hastened to the number given and found him in a poverty-stricken room, lying upon a wretched bed, without a nurse, almost delirious with suffering. I knew that he was poor, that he had bent his energies to study to the neglect of material things, but I had not expected to find him in so deplorable a condition. So I am now on my way home to get ten dollars. I went to several places, hoping that I could borrow, but failed to find any one whom I knew well enough to ask for a loan, even for so short a time as tomorrow. But perhaps you could let me have it." "Why, I’ll go with you—at once. What is the young man’s name?" "Patterson. But he’s so peculiar that he might not like to see a stranger. He begged me not to say anything about his condition." Bradley gave him ten dollars, and he did not wait to reach the next street crossing, but jumped off the car, sprang upon a cable train going north, and was soon climbing the stairs leading to the Wexton Club. The same negro admitted him, and again he was afraid that the game might have dissolved, merely to cheat him of victorious reprisal, but it was still in progress, with one vacant seat. This time he invested his entire amount. The feeling of security, inspired by a reserve fund, favored an over-confidence, he fancied; it was better to know that there was nothing in reserve; it enforced caution. He played with varying luck till about twelve o’clock, till a regular smote him, hip and thigh; and then, like the captain, in the version of the poem, not recited to ladies, he staggered down the stairs. *CHAPTER VIII.* *SAW THE BLACK FACE, GRIM, WITHOUT A SMILE.* It was nearly daylight when Bodney reached home. As he stood on the steps, after unlocking the door, he looked toward the east and said aloud: "The sun will soon draw to his flush. But he always makes it. God, what a night I’ve had. It is the last one, for here at the threshold of a new day I swear that I will never touch another card. And Goyle—I’ll have nothing more to do with him." He went in, still repeating his vow, and as he passed the door of the office, was surprised to see a light within; and halting, he heard footsteps slowly pacing up and down. He stepped in and stood face to face with the Judge. "Why, Judge, are you up so soon, or haven’t you gone to bed?" "I haven’t been to bed. And you?" "I have been sitting up with a sick friend. Don’t you think you’d better lie down now?"