“Why?”
“He comes here night after night, and he loses more than he can afford, I imagine. He has no income, so far as I can find out, except what he gets as salary, and it takes a mighty sight bigger salary than his to stand the strain he’s putting on it.”
“What is his business?”
“He is cashier in the Ninth National Bank. I don’t know how much he gets, but it can’t be enough to permit this sort of thing to go on.”
Pony Rowell shrugged his shoulders.
“I don’t think I would let it trouble me, if I were you, Mellish.”
“Nevertheless it does. I have advised him to quit, but it is no use. If I tell the doorkeeper not to let him in here, he will merely go somewhere else where they are not so particular.”
“I must confess I don’t quite understand you, Mellish, long as I have known you. In your place, now, I would either give up keeping a gambling saloon or I would give up the moral reformation line of business. I wouldn’t try to ride two horses of such different tempers at the same time.”
“I’ve never tried to reform you, Pony,” said Mellish, with reproach in his voice.
“No; I will give you credit for that much sense.”