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Updated: May 11, 2025
"Hold on," cried Ragstock, seemingly not quite understanding the situation. "You haven't won that yet." Again McLean laughed. "It would have been the same in ten minutes." He jumped up, scattering the crowd behind him. "Look to the doors," cried Pony. "Don't let this man out." McLean had his back to the wall. From under his coat he whipped two revolvers which he held out, one in each hand.
During the year that followed he steadily refused to play with Bert Ragstock, and once or twice they nearly had a quarrel about it that is as near as Pony could come to having a row with anybody, for quarrelling was not in his line. If he had lived in a less civilized part of the community Pony might have shot, but as it was quarrels never came to anything, therefore he did not indulge in any.
At last the anniversary came and when the hour struck that ushered it in Pony Rowell and Bert Ragstock sat facing each other, prepared to resume business on the old stand. "Ah," said Bert, rubbing his hands, "it feels good to get opposite you once more. Pony, you're a crank. We might have had a hundred games like this during the past year, if there wasn't so much superstition about you."
I've seen a flutter like that before." "In that case," said Pony tranquilly, "I must have a go at him. I like to tackle a youngster in the first flush of success, especially if he is plunging." "You will soon have a chance," answered Mellish, "for even Ragstock knows when he has enough. He will get up in a moment. I know the signs."
"You've won the pile: robbing a poor man of his hard- earned gains!" "Oh, the poor man does not need the money as badly as I do. Besides, I'm going to give you a chance to win it all back again and more." When Ragstock had left, Pony still sat by the table absent-mindedly shuffling the cards.
"Don't say that again," cried Ragstock, with his fingers twitching. "There's mighty few men I would take that from." "You stocked the cards on me? I'd like to see the man that could do it!" "You were excited and didn't notice it." "You're not only a liar, but you're an awkward liar. I have lost the money and I'll pay it. It would have been ready for you now, only I had a letter to write.
"What do you mean by that?" cried Ragstock. The youth ignored the question, still keeping his eyes on Rowell. "Do you squeal?" he asked. "I squeal," said Pony, whatever the question and answer might mean. Then Rowell cried, slightly raising his voice so that all might hear: "This man is Cub McLean, the most notorious card-sharper, thief, and murderer in the west.
That's superstition, Rowell. You're too cool a man to mind when you touch a card. Come on." "That's all right. At midnight, I said to myself, and at midnight it shall be or not at all." The old gamblers in the place nodded approval of this resolution. It was all right enough for Bert Ragstock to sneer at superstition, because he was not a real gambler.
He merely came to Mellish's rooms in the evening because the Stock Exchange did not keep open all night. Strange to say Ragstock was a good business man as well as a cool gambler. He bemoaned the fate that made him so rich that gambling had not the exhilarating effect on him which it would have had if he had been playing in desperation.
Inside the room that Pony Rowell had penetrated, a roulette table was at its whirling work and faro was going on in another spot. At small tables various visitors were enjoying the game of poker. "Hello, Pony," cried Bert Ragstock, "are you going to give me my revenge to-night?" "I'm always willing to give anyone his revenge." answered Pony imperturbably, lighting a fresh cigarette.
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