"Right you are," said Mellish with a sigh. He realized that this fellow, young as he looked, was probably deeper in vice than his appearance indicated and he knew the uselessness of counsel in such a case. They went into the main room together and the boy, abandoning roulette, began to play at one of the card tables for ever-increasing stakes. Mellish kept an eye on him for a time. The boy was having the luck of most beginners. He played a reckless game and won hand over fist. As one man had enough and rose from the table another eagerly took his place, but there was no break in the boy's winnings. Pony Rowell was always late in arriving at the gambling rooms. On this occasion he entered, irreproachably dressed, and with the quiet, gentlemanly demeanor habitual with him. The professional gambler was never known to lose his temper. When displeased he became quieter, if possible, than before. The only sign of inward anger was a mark like an old scar which extended from his right temple, beginning over the eye and disappearing in his closely-cropped hair behind the ear. This line became an angry red that stood out against the general pallor of his face when things were going in a way that did not please him. He spoke in a low tone to Mellish. "What's the excitement down at the other end of the room? Every one seems congregated there." "Oh," answered Mellish, "it's a boy--a stranger--who is having the devil's own luck at the start. It will be the ruin of him." "Is he playing high?" "High? I should say so. He's perfectly reckless. He'll be brought up with a sharp turn and will borrow money from me to get out of town. I've seen a flutter like that before." "In that case," said Pony tranquilly, "I must have a go at him. I like to tackle a youngster in the first flush of success, especially if he is plunging." "You will soon have a chance," answered Mellish, "for even Ragstock knows when he has enough. He will get up in a moment. I know the signs." With the air of a gentleman of leisure, somewhat tired of the frivolities of this world, Rowell made his way slowly to the group. As he looked over their shoulders at the boy a curious glitter came into his piercing eyes, and his lips, usually so well under control, tightened. The red mark began to come out as his face paled. It was evident that he did not intend to speak and that he was about to move away again, but the magnetism of his keen glance seemed to disturb the player, who suddenly looked up over the head of his opponent and met the stern gaze of Rowell. The boy did three things. He placed his cards face downward on the table, put his right hand over the pile of money, and moved his chair back. "What do you mean by that?" cried Ragstock. The youth ignored the question, still keeping his eyes on Rowell. "Do you squeal?" he asked. "I squeal," said Pony, whatever the question and answer might mean. Then Rowell cried, slightly raising his voice so that all might hear: