Nothing could have more deeply intrigued the attention of these men than the sight of a modest, quiet, well-behaved young woman exhibiting all the technic of a finished faro-dealer.  It was contrary to their experience, to their ideas of fitness.  Mastery of the gaming-table requires years of practice to acquire, and not one of these professionals but was as proud of his own dexterity as a fine pianist; to behold a mere girl possessed of all the knacks and tricks and mannerisms of the craft excited their keenest risibilities.  In order the more thoroughly to test her skill several of them bought stacks of chips and began to play in earnest; they played their bets open, they coppered, they split, they strung them, and at the finish they called the turn.  Rouletta paid and took; she measured stacks of counters with unerring facility, she overlooked no bets.  She ran out the cards, upset the box, and began to reshuffle the cards.

“Well, I’m a son of a gun!” declared the lookout.  He doubled up in breathless merriment, he rocked back and forth in his chair, he stamped his feet.  A shout of laughter issued from the others.

Ben Miller closed the cases with a crash.  “You’ll do,” he announced.  “If there’s anything you don’t know I can’t teach it to you.”  Then to the bystanders he said:  “This is Sam Kirby’s girl.  She wants work, and if I thought you coyotes knew how to treat a lady I’d put her on.”

“Say!” The Mocha Kid scowled darkly at his employer.  “What kinda guys do you take us for?  What makes you think we don’t know—­”

He was interrupted by an angry outburst, by a chorus of resentful protests, the indignant tone of which seemed to satisfy Miller.  The latter shrugged his shoulders and rose.  Rouletta stirred as if to follow suit, but eager hands stayed her, eager voices urged her to remain.

“Run ’em again, miss,” begged Tommy Ryan, the roulette-dealer.  Mr. Ryan was a pale-faced person whose addiction to harmful drugs was notorious; his extreme pallor and his nervous lack of repose had gained for him the title of “Snowbird.”  Tommy’s hollow eyes were glowing, his colorless lips were parted in an engaging smile.  “Please run ’em once more.  I ’ain’t had so much fun since my wife eloped with a drummer in El Paso.”

Rouletta agreed readily enough, and her admiring audience crowded closer.  Their interest was magnetic, their absorption and their amusement were communicated to some new-comers who had dropped in.  Before the girl had dealt half the cards these bona-fide customers had found seats around the table and were likewise playing.  They, too, enjoyed the novel experience, and the vehemence with which they insisted that Rouletta retain her office proved beyond question the success of Miller’s experiment.

It was not yet midday, nevertheless the news spread quickly that a girl was dealing bank at the Rialto, and soon other curious visitors arrived.  Among them was Big Lars Anderson.  Lars did not often gamble, but when he did he made a considerable business of it and the sporting fraternity took him seriously.  Anything in the nature of an innovation tickled the big magnate immensely, and to evidence his interest in this one he purchased a stack of chips.  Ere long he had lost several hundred dollars.  He sent for Miller, finally, and made a good-natured complaint that the game was too slow for him.