ngenial coursing-ground, and its two great metropolitan
cities, New Orleans and Saint Louis, his chief centres of operation.
Natchez, Memphis, Vicksburg, Louisville, and Cincinnati permanently have
him; but places more provincial, he only honours with an occasional
visit. He is encountered aboard all the big steamboats--those called
"crack," and carrying the wealthier class of passengers; while the
others he leaves to the more timid and less noted practitioners of his
calling.

Wherever seen, the "sport" is resplendent in shirt-front, glittering
studs, with a grand cluster of diamonds on his finger sparkling like
star, or stalactite, as he deals out the cards. He is, in truth, an
_elegant_ of the first water, apparelled and perfumed as a D'Orsay, or
Beau Brummell; and, although ranking socially lower than these, with a
sense of honour quite as high, perhaps higher than had either.

CHAPTER TWENTY NINE.

A MONTE BANK IN FULL BLAST.

In the hell "El Dorado," as already said, there are five gambling
tables, side by side, but with wide spaces between for the players.
Presiding over the one which stands central is a man of about thirty
years of age, of good figure, and well-formed features--the latter
denoting Spanish descent--his cheeks clean shaven, the upper lip
moustached, the under having a pointed imperial or "goatee," which
extends below the extremity of his chin. He has his hat on--so has
everybody in the room--a white beaver, set upon a thick shock of black
wavy hair, its brim shadowing a face that would be eminently handsome,
but for the eyes, these showing sullen, if not sinister. Like his hair,
they are coal-black, though he rarely raises their lids, his gaze being
habitually fixed on the cards in his hands. Only once has he looked up
and around, on hearing a name pronounced bearing an odd resemblance to
that of the game he is engaged in, though merely a coincidence. It is
"Montijo." Two native Californians standing close behind him are
engaged in a dialogue, in which they incidentally speak of Don Gregorio.
It is a matter of no moment--only a slight allusion--and, as their
conversation is almost instantly over, the Monte dealer again drops his
long dark lashes, and goes on with the game, his features resuming their
wonted impassibility.

Though to all appearance immobile as those of the Sphinx, one watching
him closely could see that there is something in his mind besides Monte.
For although the