playing or watching with morbid curiosity the ventures of others. There you may always find the Mexican, the most constant and the most intrepid of players, with his broad sombrero drawn well over his eyes, and in his bright-colored serape, symbol of pride and poverty, are placed his well-worn weapons. You may be sure if he is not playing he has no money.
Monte is the favorite game of the Mexican, as he considers the chances nearer equal and the opportunities for foul play smaller. Between the experienced Mexican gambler and the innocent, audacious Yankee there is a marked contrast. The former gambles with the coolness of a fatalist; what must be, will be, it cannot be changed. The latter, with tongue and feature, displays anger or joy at every venture; he will succumb before no destiny; are not Americans makers of destiny?
Innumerable are the stories told of worshippers at the shrine of the fickle goddess, beside the many untold tales.
A young man from the mines conceived it his mission to break a gambler's bank in Sacramento. Fifteen hundred dollars, his all, were speedily lost, when, turning to the gambler, he exclaimed, "You have all my money; give me an ounce to get back to the mines with." Without a word the gambler pitched him a doubloon, and the young man returned to his digging.
Another arrived in town with $19,000, on his way home. Depositing $16,000 with a friend, with the remainder he entered a brilliant saloon, seated himself at a monte table, and began betting Soon the $3,000 were added to the bank. The infatuated man then took the remainder of his money, and notwithstanding the remonstrances of his friend, staked and lost it all.
A husband and father having secured sufficient to make his family comfortable, determined to go home to stay. The night before he was to have started,
