Nothing lures a man to destruction quicker than a system that can be mathematically demonstrated. It gives an air of business to gambling which is soothing to the conscience of a person brought up on statistics. The system generally works beautifully at first; then a cog slips and you are mangled in the machinery before you know where you are. As young Forme left the table he felt a hand on his shoulder, and looking around, met the impassive gaze of Pony Rowell.
“You’re young at the business, I see,” remarked the professional quietly.
“Why do you think that?” asked the youngster, coloring, for one likes to be taken for a veteran, especially when one is an amateur.
“Because you fool away your time at roulette. That is a game for boys and women. Have you nerve enough to play a real game?”
“What do you call a real game?”
“A game with cards in a private room for something bigger than half- dollar points.”
“How big?”
“Depends on what capital you have. How much capital can you command?”
The cashier hesitated for a moment and his eyes fell from the steady light of Rowell’s, which seemed to have an uncomfortable habit of looking into one’s inmost soul.
“I can bring $1,000 here on Saturday night.”