He Means Fight

The bar-room of the blazing Poodle-Dog was thronged with men--men
standing before the long, sloppy bar, men seated around rough tables,
and men lounging here and there in groups about the heavily sanded
floor. Uninterestedly glancing at these, Winston paused for an idle
moment, his eyes fastened upon a whirling spectacle of dancers in the
hall beyond. It formed a scene of mad revelry; yet in his present
state of mind, he cared little for its frontier picturesqueness, and
soon turned away, mounting the broad stairway down which, like an
invitation, echoed the sharp click of ivory chips, and the excited
voices of those absorbed in play. In both size and gorgeousness of
decoration the rooms above were a surprise--a glitter of lights, a
babel of noises, a continuous jumble of figures, while over all
trembled a certain tension of excitement, terrible in its enchaining
power. The very atmosphere seemed electric, filled with a deadly
charm. The dull roar of undistinguishable voices sounded incessantly,
occasionally punctuated by those sharp, penetrating tones with which
the scattered dealers called varied turns of play, or by some deep oath
falling unnoted from desperate lips as the unhappy end came. Winston,
who had seen many similar scenes, glanced with his usual cool
indifference at the various groups of players, careless except in his
search, and pressing straight through the vibrating, excited throng,
regardless of the many faces fronting him. He understood that Farnham
dealt faro, and consequently moved directly down the long main room
totally indifferent to all else. He discovered his particular goal at
last, almost at the farther end of the great apartment, the crowd
gathered about the faro table dense and silent. He succeeded in
pressing in slowly through the outer fringe of players until he
attained a position within ten feet of the dealer. There he halted,
leaning against the wall, the narrow space between them unoccupied.