We didn't annihilate the fish. They hardly felt they were being hurt, but we got a steady advantage, day after day. We did so well we took on another man--I can take physical labor or leave it alone, and I leave it alone every chance I get. That was where we first felt the trouble. Our new boy was around twenty. He had a swept-wing haircut, complete with tail fins. Also he had a silly laugh. Now, there are jokes in a card game--somebody taking a beating will sound off, to take away some of the sting, but nobody laughs because the cracks are never funny. But they were to our new boy. He laughed. He laughed not only when the mark made some crack, but a lot of the time when he didn't. It got so the customers were looking at him with a lot of dislike, and that was bad for business. So I called him out into the hall. "Skippy," I said--that's what we called him, "lay off. _Never_ rub it in to a sucker. It's enough to take his money." He ran his fingers back along his hair. "Can't a fellow express himself?" I gave him a long, hard unhealthy look. _Express_ himself? He wouldn't have to. I'd express him myself--express him right out of our setup. But before I got a chance, this fellow from Chicago came in, a big manufacturer named Chapo; a wheel, and he looked it. He was red-faced, with hanging jowls and a big dollar cigar; he announced that he only played for big stakes ... and, nodding toward the kid and me, that he didn't like an audience. Henry looked at us miserably. But what was he going to do? If he didn't go along, the word could spread that maybe there was something wrong going on. He had to play. "Take the day off, you two," he said, but he wasn't happy. I thought fast. There was still one chance. I got behind Chapo long enough to give Henry a wink and a nod toward the window. Then I took Skippy by the elbow and steered him out of there. Down in the street I said, fast: "You want to earn your pay? You have to give me a hand--an eye is really what I mean. Don't argue--just say yes or no." He didn't stop to think. "Sure," he said. "Why not?" "All right." I took him down the street to where they had genuine imported Japanese field glasses and laid out twenty bucks for a pair. The man was a thief, but I didn't have time to argue. Right across the street from Henry's place was a rundown hotel. That was our next stop. The desk man in the scratch house looked up from his comic book. "A room," I said. "Me and my nephew want a room facing the street." And I pointed to the window of Henry's place, where I wanted it to face. Because we still had a chance. With the field glasses and Skippy's young, good eyes to look through them, with the transmitter that would carry an extra hundred yards easy enough--with everything going for us, we had a chance. Provided Henry had been able to maneuver Chapo so his back was to the window.