quarter; I now observed that the same scene in which I had so lately been occupied at the rouge et noir table, was enacting here, under rather different circumstances. Mr. O’Leary was the only player, as I had just been—not, however, because his success absorbed all the interest of the bystanders, but that, unfortunately, his constant want of it elicited some strong expression of discontent and mistrust from him, which excited the loud laughter of the others; but of which, from his great anxiety in his game, he seemed totally unconscious. “Faites votre jeu, Messieurs,” said the croupier. “Wait a bit till I change this,” said Mr. O’Leary, producing an English sovereign; the action interpreted his wishes, and the money was converted into coupons de jeu. I now discovered one great cause of the mirth of the bystanders, at least the English portion of them. Mr. O’Leary, when placing his money upon the table, observed the singular practice of announcing aloud the amount of his bet, which, for his own information, he not only reduced to English but also Irish currency; thus the stillness of the room was every instant broken by a strong Irish accent pronouncing something of this sort—“five francs,” “four and a penny”—“ten francs,” “eight and three ha’pence.” The amusement thus caused was increased by the excitement his losses threw him into. He now ceased to play for several times, when at last, he made an offering of his usual stake. “Perd,” said the croupier, raking in the piece with a contemptuous air at the smallness of the bet, and in no way pleased that the interest Mr. O’Leary excited should prevent the other players from betting. “Perd,” said O’Leary, “again. Divil another song you sing than ‘perd,’ and I’m not quite clear you’re not cheating all the while—only, God help you if you are!” As he so said, the head of a huge black-thorn stick was half protruded across the table, causing renewed mirth; for, among other regulations, every cane, however trifling, is always demanded at the door; and thus a new subject of astonishment arose as to how he had succeeded in carrying it with him into the salon. “Here’s at you again,” said O’Leary, regardless of the laughter, and covering three or four numbers with his jetons. Round went the ball once more, and once more he lost. “Look now, divil a lie in it, he makes them go wherever he pleases. I’ll take a turn now at the tables; fair play’s a jewel—and we’ll see how you’ll get on.” So saying, he proceeded to insinuate himself into the chair of the croupier, whom he proposed to supersede by no very gentle means. This was of course resisted, and as the loud mirth of the bystanders grew more and more boisterous, the cries of “a la porte, a la porte,” from the friends of the bank, rung through the crowd. “Go it, Pat—go it, Pat,” said Guy, over my shoulder, who seemed to take a prodigious interest in the proceedings.