ng
money from them. This was raw gambling, raw drinking, raw vice. It
was the old Bret Harte days multiplied by ten.

And yet there was a fascination about it. Bob felt it. It is idiotic
to deny that gambling, which is the lure of quick money reduced to
minutes and seconds, has not a fascination for nearly all men. As Bob
stood leaning with his back against the bar--there was no other place
to lean, not one place in that big hall to sit down--the scene filled
him with the tragedy of futile trust in luck.

All these men knew that a day's work, a bale of cotton, a crate of
melons, a cultivator--positive, useful things--brought money, positive,
useful returns. And yet they staked that certainty on a vague belief
in luck--and always, and always lost the certainty in grabbing for the
shadow.

Most of these men were day labourers, clerks, small-salaried men. It
cost a thousand dollars a day to run this house, and it made another
thousand dollars in profits. Two thousand dollars--a thousand days'
hard work squandered every night by the poor devils who hoped to get
something easy. And some of them squandered not merely one day's work
but a month's or six months' hard, sweaty toil flipped away with one
throw of the dice or one spin of the ball.

While Bob's eyes watched the ever-shifting crowd that moved from table
to table he saw Rodriguez, the man for whom he was searching. He was
with Reedy Jenkins and three others coming from that end of the
building devoted to alleged musical comedy. Besides the natty
Madrigal, the sad-looking Rodriguez and Reedy, there were a Mexican and
an American Bob did not know. All of them except Rodriguez wore
expensive silk shirts and panama hats, and had had several drinks and
were headed for more. Reedy, pink and expansive, chuckling and
oratorical, was evidently the host. He was almost full enough and
hilarious enough to do something ridiculous if the occasion offered.

After two more rounds of drinks the party started for the gaming
tables. The crowd was too thick for them to push their way in as a
body, so they scattered. Reedy bought ten dollars' worth of chips at a
roulette table, played them in stacks of twenty, and lost in three
minutes. As he turned away he caught sight of Bob Rogeen and came
across to him.

"Hello, Cotton-eyed Joe," he said with drunken jocularity, "let's have
a drink."

"Thanks," replied Bob, "my wildest dissipation is iced rain water."

Bob