"Well," said the stranger. "You got out fourteen cards. If you had paid
a penny a card for the pack, how much would you have gained over what
you spent?"

"Eighteen pennies," said Lewis, after a moment. "If I had got them all
out," he added, "it would have been two hundred and eight pennies."

"Right!" said the stranger. "You have a head for figures. Now, have you
any money?"

Lewis colored slightly.

"Yes," he said. He fished out his two bank-notes and laid them on the
table.

The stranger picked them up.

"All right," he said. "I'll sell you the pack for one of these. Now, go
ahead."

All afternoon Lewis played against the bank with varying fortune. When
he was ahead, some instinct made him ashamed to call off; when he was
behind, a fever seized him--a fever to hold his own, to win. His eyes
began to ache. Toward evening three successive bad hands suddenly wiped
out his store of money. A feeling of despair came over him.

"Don't worry," said the stranger. He pushed the two notes and another
toward Lewis. "I'll give you those for your pony. Now, at it you go. Win
him back."