"Oh, you can play if you want to. But don't come whining to me when you
lose. I've warned you."

"I'm not a whiner," said the young fellow; "I take my medicine like a
man."

"Right you are," said Mellish with a sigh. He realized that this
fellow, young as he looked, was probably deeper in vice than his
appearance indicated and he knew the uselessness of counsel in such a
case. They went into the main room together and the boy, abandoning
roulette, began to play at one of the card tables for ever-increasing
stakes. Mellish kept an eye on him for a time. The boy was having the
luck of most beginners. He played a reckless game and won hand over
fist. As one man had enough and rose from the table another eagerly
took his place, but there was no break in the boy's winnings.

Pony Rowell was always late in arriving at the gambling rooms. On this
occasion he entered, irreproachably dressed, and with the quiet,
gentlemanly demeanor habitual with him. The professional gambler was
never known to lose his temper. When displeased he became quieter, if
possible, than before. The only sign of inward anger was a mark like an
old scar which extended from his right temple, beginning over the eye
and disappearing in his closely-cropped hair behind the ear. This line
became an angry red that stood out against the general pallor of his
face when things were going in a way that did not please him. He spoke
in a low tone to Mellish.

"What's the excitement down at the other end of the room? Every one
seems congregated there."