A gambling den. situated on Meeting street.  “You must get money, George.  Here you are nothing without money.  Take this, try your hand, make your genius serve you.”  Mr. Snivel puts twenty dollars into George’s hand.  They are in a room some twenty by thirty feet in dimensions, dimly-lighted.  Standing here and there are gambling tables, around which are seated numerous mechanics, losing, and being defrauded of that for which they have labored hard during the week.  Hope, anxiety, and even desperation is pictured on the countenances of the players.  Maddened and disappointed, one young man rises from a table, at which sits a craven-faced man sweeping the winnings into his pile, and with profane tongue, says he has lost his all.  Another, with flushed face and bloodshot eyes, declares it the sixth time he has lost his earnings here.  A third reels confusedly about the room, says a mechanic is but a dog in South Carolina; and the sooner he comes to a dog’s end the better.

Mr. Snivel points George to a table, at which he is soon seated.  “Blank-blank-blank!” he reiterates, as the numbers turn up, and one by one the moody bank-keeper sweeps the money into his fast-increasing heap.  “Cursed fate!—­it is against me,” mutters the forlorn man.  “Another gone, and yet another!  How this deluding, this fascinating money tortures me.”  With hectic face and agitated nerve, he puts down his last dollar.  “Luck’s mysterious!” exclaims Mr. Snivel, looking on unmoved, as the man of the moody face declares a blank, and again sweeps the money into his heap.  “Gone!” says George, “all’s gone now.”  He rises from his seat, in despair.

“Don’t get frantic, George-be a philosopher-try again-here’s a ten.  Luck ’ll turn,” says Mr. Snivel, patting the deluded man familiarly on the shoulder, as he resumes his seat.  “Will poverty never cease torturing me?  I have tried to be a man, an honest man, a respectable man.  And yet, here I am, again cast upon a gambler’s sea, struggling with its fearful tempests.  How cold, how stone-like the faces around me!” he muses, watching with death-like gaze each number as it turns up.  Again he has staked his last dollar; again fortune frowns upon him.  Like a furnace of livid flame, the excitement seems burning up his brain.  “I am a fool again,” he says, throwing the blank number contemptuously upon the table.  “Take it-take it, speechless, imperturbable man!  Rake it into your pile, for my eyes are dim, and my fortune I must seek elsewhere.”

A noise at the door, as of some one in distress, is heard, and there rushes frantically into the den a pale, dejected-looking woman, bearing in her arms a sick and emaciated babe.  “Oh, William!  William!—­has it come to this?” she shrieks, casting a wild glance round the den, until, with a dark, sad expression, her eye falls upon the object of her search.  It is her husband, once a happy mechanic.  Enticed by degrees into this den of ruin, becoming fascinated with its games of