"So that's his game, huh?" said the bartender. "How's th' gink in
number four?"

"Dead t' th' world."

"Tip th' Sneak. There may be a chancet t' roll 'em both. Here y' are.
Soak 'im two-fifty."

Half an hour longer Thomas waited. Then he rose and tiptoed to the
door, drawing it back without the least sound. Jameson's had not
latched. Taking a deep long breath (strange, how one may control the
heart by this process!) Thomas crossed the corridor and entered the
other room; entered prepared for any emergency. If Jameson awoke, so
much the worse for him. The gods owe it to the mortals they keep in
bondage to bestow a grain of luck here and there along the way to
Elysium or Hades. His cabin-mate's stentorian breathing convinced the
trespasser that it was the stupidest, heaviest kind of sleep.

For a moment he looked down at the man contemptuously. To have
befuddled his brain at such a time! Or was it because the wretch knew
that he, Thomas, would not dare cry out over his loss? He stepped
behind the sleeping man. He wanted to fall upon him, beat him with his
fists. Ah, if he had not found him!

The night, fortunately, was warm and thick. Jameson had carelessly
thrown open his coat and vest. Underneath he wore the usual
sailor-jersey. Thomas steeled his arms. With one hand he pulled the
roll collar away from the man's neck and with the other sought for the
string: sought in vain. The light, the four drab walls, the haze of