As a matter of fact, since there was no estate from which he drew an income, and since he had never been known in the entire history of his young life to do a single stroke of productive work of any kind, the bitter truth was that Ronicky Doone was no better and no worse than a common gambler.
Indeed, if to play a game of chance is to commit a sin, Ronicky Doone was a very great sinner.

Yet it should be remarked that he lacked the fine art of taking the money of other less clever fellows when they were intoxicated, and he also lacked the fine hardness of mind which enables many gamblers to enjoy taking the last cent from an opponent.
Also, though he knew the entire list of tricks in the repertoire of a crooked gambler, he had never been known to employ tricking.
He trusted in a calm head, a quick judgment, an ability to read character.

And, though he occasionally met with crooked professionals who were wolves in the guise of sheep, no one had ever been known to play more than one crooked trick at cards when playing against Ronicky Doone.

So, on the whole, he made a very good living.
What he had he gave or threw away in wild spending or loaned to friends, of whom he had a vast number.

All of which goes to explain the soft hands of Ronicky Doone and his nervous, swift-moving fingers, as he stood at the door of the hotel.