“Hed he bin ‘heeled’ wi’ a shipment uv Black Hills sixes, thet would hev enabled him to distinguish hisself fer superyer ability.  Now, as I sed before, I’m a lineal descendant uv ther notorious Ain and Cable, and I’ve lit down hyar among ye ter explain a few p’ints ’bout true blessedness and true cussedness.

“Oh! brethern, I tell ye I’m a snorter, I am, when I git a-goin’—­a wild screechin’ cattymount, right down frum ther sublime spheres up Starkey—­ar’ a regular epizootic uv religyun, sent down frum clouddum and scattered permiscously ter ther forty winds uv ther earth.”

We pass the “cattymount,” and presently come to a table at which a young and handsome “pilgrim,” and a ferret-eyed sharp are engaged at cards.  The first mentioned is a tall, robust fellow, somewhere in the neighborhood of twenty-three years of age, with clear-cut features, dark lustrous eyes, and teeth of pearly whiteness.  His hair is long and curling, and a soft brown mustache, waxed at the ends, is almost perfection itself.

Evidently he is of quick temperament, for he handles the cards with a swift, nervous dexterity that surprises even the professional sharp himself, who is a black, swarthy-looking customer, with “villain” plainly written in every lineament of his countenance; his eyes, hair, and a tremendous mustache that he occasionally strokes, are of a jetty black; did you ever notice it?—­dark hair and complexion predominate among the gambling fraternity.

Perhaps this is owing to the condition of the souls of some of these characters.

The professional sharp in our case was no exception to the rule.  He was attired in the hight of fashion, and the diamond cluster, inevitably to be found there, was on his shirt front; a jewel of wonderful size and brilliancy.

“Ah! curse the luck!” exclaimed the sharp, slapping down the cards; “you have won again, pilgrim, and I am five hundred out.  By the gods, your luck is something astonishing!”

“Luck!” laughed the other, coolly:  “well, no.  I do not call it luck, for I never have luck.  We’ll call it chance!”

“Just as you say,” growled the gambler, bringing forth a new pack.  “Chance and luck are then twin companions.  Will you continue longer, Mr.——­”

“Redburn,” finished the pilgrim.

“Ah! yes—­Mr. Redburn, will you continue?”

“I will play as long as there is anything to play for,” again finished Mr. R., twisting the waxed ends of his mustache calmly.  “Maybe you have got your fill, eh?”

“No; I’ll play all night to win back what I have lost.”

A youth, attired in buck-skin, and apparently a couple of years younger than Redburn, came sauntering along at this juncture, and seeing an unoccupied chair at one end of the table (for Redburn and the gambler sat at the sides, facing each other), he took possession of it forthwith.

“Hello!” and the sharp swore roundly.  “Who told you to mix in your lip, pilgrim?”