“How did you get down from White Horse?” Miller inquired, curiously.

“’Poleon Doret brought me.”

“I know Doret.  He’s aces.”

“Can you really deal?” Best broke in.

“Come.  I’ll prove that I can.”  Rouletta started for the gambling-room and the two men followed.  Best spoke to his partner in a low voice: 

“Say, Ben, if she can make a half-way bluff at it she’ll be a big card.  Think of the play she’ll get.”

But Miller was dubious.  “She’s nothing but a kid,” he protested.  “A dealer has got to have experience, and, besides, she ain’t the kind that belongs in a dump.  Somebody’d get fresh and—­I’d have to bust him.”

There was little activity around the tables al this hour of the day; the occupants of the gambling-room were, for the most part, house employees who were waiting for business to begin.  The majority of these employees were gathered about the faro layout, where the cards were being run in a perfunctory manner to an accompaniment of gossip and reminiscence.  The sight of Ben Miller in company with a girl evoked some wonder.  This wonder increased to amazement when Miller ordered the dealer out of his seat; it became open-mouthed when the girl took his place, then broke a new deck of cards, deftly shuffled them, and slipped them into the box.  At this procedure the languid lookout, who had been comfortably resting upon his spine, uncurled his legs, hoisted himself into an attitude of attention, and leaned forward with a startled expression upon his face.

The gamblers crowded closer, exchanging expectant glances; Ben Miller and Morris Best helped themselves to chips and began to play.  These were queer doings; the case-hardened onlookers prepared to enjoy a mildly entertaining treat.  Soon grins began to appear; the men murmured, they nudged one another, they slapped one another on the back, for what they saw astonished and delighted them.  The girl dealt swiftly, surely; she handled the paraphernalia of the faro-table with the careless familiarity of long practice; but stranger still, she maintained a poise, a certain reserve and feminine dignity which were totally incongruous.

When, during a pause, she absent-mindedly shuffled a stack of chips, the Mocha Kid permitted his feelings to get the better of him.

“Hang me for a horse-thief!” he snickered.  “Will you look at that?” Now the Mocha Kid was a ribald character, profanity was a part of him, and blasphemy embellished his casual speech.  The mildness of his exclamation showed that he was deeply moved.  He continued in the same admiring undertone:  “I seen a dame once that could deal a bank, but she couldn’t pay and take.  This gal can size up a stack with her eyes shut!”