"I have no doubt but the bill is good," said the Agent, putting it in his pocket. "You are sure you had it of the Captain?"
"O, yes! 'twasn't an hour ago he gave it to me."
"By the way, who is this Captain Wilkins? He's a very gentlemanly-appearing fellow."
"O, he's a capital fellow!" said the landlord.
"What's his business?"
"He keeps a faro bank."
To a Northern reader, the two clauses of this statement may seem inconsistent with each other. But allowance must be made for the freedom of Southern manners and society. To bet at a faro bank is considered no serious stain upon the honor and respectability of gentlemen in Southern cities. The keeper of a faro bank may pass, as we have seen, for a "capital fellow." But the Agent felt pained to know from what source the landlord had obtained the bill. Already a dark picture of temptation and crime arose before his eyes. It is a significant and too often a tragical word—the Faro Bank!
Captain Wilkins had gone to ride. The Agent pretended to transact a little business, mailed two or three letters, and read the newspapers until his return. The rattling of a light-wheeled buggy before the hotel steps announced the expected arrival.
Captain Wilkins—a soberly-dressed and polite individual, whom one might have taken for a clergyman—stepped out of the vehicle, accompanied by a friend, pulled off his driving-gloves as he entered the house, and lighted a fresh cigar at the bar.
The Agent took an early occasion to accost him.