Mellish was a careful man, and a visitor had to be well vouched for, before he gained admission. There never was any trouble in Mellish’s rooms. He was often known to advise a player to quit when he knew the young gambler could not afford to lose, and instances were cited where he had been the banker of some man in despair. Everybody liked Mellish, for his generosity was unbounded, and he told a good story well.
Inside the room that Pony Rowell had penetrated, a roulette table was at its whirling work and faro was going on in another spot. At small tables various visitors were enjoying the game of poker.
“Hello, Pony,” cried Bert Ragstock, “are you going to give me my revenge to-night?”
“I’m always willing to give anyone his revenge.” answered Pony imperturbably, lighting a fresh cigarette.
“All right then; come and sit down here.”
“I’m not going to play just yet. I want to look on for a while.”
“Nonsense. I’ve been waiting for you ever so long already. Sit down.”
“You ought to know by this time, Bert, that when I say a thing I mean it. I won’t touch a card till the clock begins to strike 12. Then I’m wid ye.”
“Pshaw, Pony, you ought to be above that sort of thing. That’s superstition, Rowell. You’re too cool a man to mind when you touch a card. Come on.”
“That’s all right. At midnight, I said to myself, and at midnight it shall be or not at all.”