"Gents, this is a sort of gospel game, and it's got a certain tone which we're going to maintain. The limit is off, except on cussing, but it's mighty low on that. Them of you that are indisposed to swallow your cud of regrets will have it knocked out of you." "Good!" shouted Big Lars. He pounded the table with the flat of his huge palm. "By Jingo! I'll make that unanimous. If anybody has to cuss let him take ten paces to the rear and cuss the stove." It was well along in the afternoon when Rouletta Kirby pushed back her chair and rose. She was very white; she passed an uncertain hand over her face, then groped blindly at the table for support. At these signs of distress a chorus of alarm arose. "It's nothing," she smiled. '"I'm just--hungry. I've been pretty ill and I'm not very strong yet." Lars Anderson was dumfounded, appalled. "Hungry? My God!" To his companions he shouted: "D'you hear that, boys? She's starved out!" The boys had heard; already they had begun to scramble. Some ran for the lunch-counter in the adjoining room, others dashed out to the nearest restaurants. The Snowbird so far forgot his responsibilities as to abandon the roulette-wheel and leave its bank-roll unguarded while he scurried to the bar and demanded a drink, a tray of assorted drinks, fit for a fainting lady. He came flying back, yelling, "Gangway!" and, scattering the crowd ahead of him, he offered brandy, whisky, creme de menthe, hootch, absinthe and bitters to Rouletta, all of which she declined. He was still arguing the medicinal value of these beverages when the swinging doors from the street burst open and in rushed the Mocha Kid, a pie in each hand. Other eatables and drinkables appeared as by magic, the faro-table was soon spread with the fruits of a half-dozen hasty and hysterical forays. Rouletta stared at the apprehensive faces about her, and what she read therein caused her lips to quiver and her voice to break when she tried to express her thanks. "Gosh! Don't cry!" begged the Mocha Kid. With a counterfeit assumption of juvenile hilarity he exclaimed: "Oh, look at the pretty pies! They got little Christmas-trees on their lids, 'ain't they? Um-yum! Rich and juicy! I stuck up the baker and stole his whole stock, but I slipped and spilled 'em F. O. B.--flat on the boardwalk." Rouletta laughed. "Let's end the game and all have lunch," she suggested, and her invitation was accepted. Big Lars spoke up with his mouth full of pastry: "We don't allow anybody to go hungry in this camp," said he. "We're all your friends, miss, and if there's anything you want and can't afford, charge it to me." Rouletta stopped to speak with Miller, on her way out. "Do I get the position?" she inquired. "Say! You know you get it!" he told her. "You go on at eight and come off at midnight." "What is the pay?" "I pay my dealers an ounce a shift, but--you can write your own ticket. How is two ounces?" "I'll take regular wages," Rouletta smiled.