As was only to be expected, the luck presently turned against him, and one night, after long play, he found himself not only stripped of all his money, but in debt to Reinhardt. This position was irksome to a high-spirited temperament. The idea of owing money to his superior was unendurable, and after a restless night, during which he slept little, he resolved to borrow from his chum enough to clear him. "Got a few dollars to spare, old chap?" he said with an assumed light-heartedness at breakfast. Burroughs flushed, and cast his eyes upon his plate: an onlooker would have thought from his manner that he was the culprit. He knew very well what was coming, and felt instinctively what Errington had suffered inwardly before he could have brought himself to this point. "You can have what you like, Pidge--in reason, of course." "Thanks. I could do with twenty or thirty dollars just now. Sorry to trouble you." "Oh, hang it, man, don’t talk such rot. What’s mine’s yours any time you like." Errington pocketed the money hastily, and spoke of something else. His discomfort was so obvious that Burroughs hoped he would drop the card-playing forthwith. Until the monthly cheque for his salary arrived, indeed, Errington absented himself from Reinhardt’s parties. He repaid Burroughs at once, and for a week or two never went out in the evening. But then the old restlessness crept upon him; once more he joined the jolly party; then not an evening passed without his leaving the chummery as soon as it was dark, not to return until long past midnight. His losses became more serious, and he played again in an attempt to retrieve them, only to plunge deeper still. One morning, with pale face and stammering lips, quite unlike his wonted self, he asked Burroughs for the loan of a hundred dollars. "All right, old man," said his friend, determinedly cheerful, "but aren’t you going the pace rather?" "What do you mean?" demanded Errington hotly, his old resentment at restraint flaming forth. "Well, it’s no affair of mine, of course, but it’s a pity, don’t you think, to let that fellow Reinhardt get the whip hand of you?" "Confound you, why are you always girding at Reinhardt? What’s he done to you? Anybody would think he’s an ogre, waiting to crunch my bones, to hear you talk." He ignored the fact that for months Burroughs had not once opened his mouth on the subject. "What’s a fellow to do if he can’t enjoy a harmless game? It’s all straight; you don’t suppose I’d play with sharpers; and one can’t always win. You don’t want me to shirk it when I lose, I suppose? I tell you what it is: you’re getting mean and miserly; you’re afraid you won’t get your beastly money back." "You know me better than that, Pidge," said Burroughs quietly. "You’re a bit off colour, old chap. Here’s your hundred; pay me when you like."