What with the tales, and the songs, and the whisky punch, Jim thought himself the happiest fellow alive the first night he joined the party, especially when he found himself the winner of three or four bright sovereigns, which had become his own for the mere throwing down of a few cards, and a rattle or two of the dice box. But all was not so pleasant the next morning. Jim awoke with a sick headache and a sore heart. And what should he do with his winnings? He would take them to his mother: nay, the very thought stung him like a serpent. His mother would want to know how he got the gold; or, when he threw it into her lap, she would say, "The Lord bless you, Jimmy, and give it you back a hundredfold"; and his sister would clasp her wasted hands in thankfulness, and he could not bear to think of a mother's blessing and a sister's prayers over gains that were tainted with the leprosy of sin. So he kept the money, and the next night of meeting he lost it, and more besides; and then another night he was a gainer; and the gambler's thirst grew strong in him. But loss soon followed loss. His legacy was slipping surely down into the pockets of his new friends. Cruel! Cruel! Heartless Mark! And oh! The cursed drink! What meanness is there to which it will not lead its slaves? And now the night came we have before referred to. John Gubbins sat at the top of the table; Jim Forbes took his place near him. The spirits went round; the cards and dice were busy. John Gubbins lost, and Mark won. Jim Forbes lost; and his cheeks flushed, and his eyes glittered with excitement, and he ground his teeth together. The strangers affected to be surprised at his ill luck; really they couldn't understand it, they said; they were quite sorry for him; but, "nothing venture, nothing win"; _his_ turn would come next. But it did not come that night. Jim had now drawn the whole of his legacy from the bank. The last sovereign was staked; it was lost. He sprang to his feet, seized the uncut pack of cards, and hurled it to the further end of the room; then he shook his fist at his new companions, calling them cheats and villains. Up darted the man with the exuberant hair, and up rose Mark and Gubbins. But what was _that_? A strange noise outside. The dog in the kennel muttered a low growl, and then began to bark furiously; then the approach of footsteps was plain; a deathlike stillness fell on the whole party; the strangers caught up the cards and dice, and looked this way and that, pale and aghast. And now there came a loud and peremptory knocking at the door, as of men who were determined to find entrance. "Who's there?" asked Gubbins, in quivering tones. "Open the door," was the reply from a deep, loud voice. "I can't, by no means, do nothing of the sort, at this unseasonable hour," said the coachman, a little more boldly. "Open the door, or I'll force it," said the same voice.