“Shall I raise the limit?” the proprietor asked of Rouletta.  The girl shrugged indifferently, whereupon the Mocha Kid and the Snowbird embraced each other and exchanged admiring profanities in smothered tones.

Big Lars stubbornly backed his luck, but the bank continued to win, and meanwhile new arrivals dropped in.  Two, three hours the play went on, by which time all Dawson knew that a big game was running and that a girl was in the dealer’s chair.  Few of the visitors got close enough to verify the intelligence without receiving a sotto voce warning that rough talk was taboo—­Miller’s ungodly clan saw to that—­and on the whole the warning was respected.  Only once was it disregarded; then a heavy loser breathed a thoughtless oath.  Disapproval was marked, punishment was condign; the lookout leisurely descended from his eyrie and floored the offender with a blow from his fist.

When the resulting disturbance had quieted down the defender of decorum announced with inflexible firmness, but with a total lack of heat: 

“Gents, this is a sort of gospel game, and it’s got a certain tone which we’re going to maintain.  The limit is off, except on cussing, but it’s mighty low on that.  Them of you that are indisposed to swallow your cud of regrets will have it knocked out of you.”

“Good!” shouted Big Lars.  He pounded the table with the flat of his huge palm.  “By Jingo!  I’ll make that unanimous.  If anybody has to cuss let him take ten paces to the rear and cuss the stove.”

It was well along in the afternoon when Rouletta Kirby pushed back her chair and rose.  She was very white; she passed an uncertain hand over her face, then groped blindly at the table for support.  At these signs of distress a chorus of alarm arose.

“It’s nothing,” she smiled. ’"I’m just—­hungry.  I’ve been pretty ill and I’m not very strong yet.”

Lars Anderson was dumfounded, appalled.  “Hungry?  My God!” To his companions he shouted:  “D’you hear that, boys?  She’s starved out!”

The boys had heard; already they had begun to scramble.  Some ran for the lunch-counter in the adjoining room, others dashed out to the nearest restaurants.  The Snowbird so far forgot his responsibilities as to abandon the roulette-wheel and leave its bank-roll unguarded while he scurried to the bar and demanded a drink, a tray of assorted drinks, fit for a fainting lady.  He came flying back, yelling, “Gangway!” and, scattering the crowd ahead of him, he offered brandy, whisky, creme de menthe, hootch, absinthe and bitters to Rouletta, all of which she declined.  He was still arguing the medicinal value of these beverages when the swinging doors from the street burst open and in rushed the Mocha Kid, a pie in each hand.  Other eatables and drinkables appeared as by magic, the faro-table was soon spread with the fruits of a half-dozen hasty and hysterical forays.

Rouletta stared at the apprehensive faces about her, and what she read therein caused her lips to quiver and her voice to break when she tried to express her thanks.