Win, lose; lose, win; win, win, lose, lose, lose, lose, lose, lose.
Abel Newt smiled: his face was red, his eyes glaring.
"I've played enough," he said; "the luck's against me!" He passed his hands rapidly through his hair.
"Cash I can not pay," he said; "but here is my I O U, and a check of my Uncle Lawrence's in the morning; for I have no account, you know." His voice was rough.

It was two o'clock in the morning; and the lonely woman he had left sat waiting and wondering: stealing to the front door and straining her eyes into the night: stealing softly back again to press her forehead against the window: and the quiet hopelessness of her face began to be pricked with terror.
"Good-night, gentlemen," said Abel, huskily and savagely.
There was a laugh around the table at which he had been playing.
"Takes it hardly, now that he's got money," said one of his old cronies.
"He's made up with Uncle Lawrence, I hear.

Hope he'll come often, hey ?" he said to the bank.
The bank smiled vaguely, but did not reply.
It was after two, and Abel burst into the street.

He had been drinking brandy, and the fires were lighted within him.

Pulling his hat heavily upon his head, he moved unsteadily along the street toward the ferry.