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Page 32
"Five on the red," it said distinctly, with an effect of extravagant
apathy.
A thought later he caught the croupier's eye and drove the wager home
with a nod. His heart stopped beating.
Five dollars! All he had in the world!
The _whirr_ of the deadly little ball in its ebony runway was like
nothing less than the exultant shriek of a banshee. Instantaneously
(as if an accident had happened in the power house) every light in his
body went out and left it cold and dark and altogether dismayed.
The croupier began his chant: "Three, red--!"
P. Sybarite failed to hear the rest. All the lights were on again,
full blast. The croupier tossed him a chocolate token. He was
conscious that he touched it with numb and witless fingers,
mechanically pushing it upon the red diamond.
Ensued another awful, soul-sickening minute of suspense....
"Twenty-five, red--!"
A second brown chip appeared magically on top of the first. P.
Sybarite regarded both stupidly; afraid to touch them, his brain
communicated to his hand the impulse to remove the chips ere it was
too late, but the hand hung moveless in listless mutiny.
"_Thirty-four red_--!"
Two more chips were added to his stack.
And this time his brain sulked. If his body wouldn't heed its plain
and sagacious admonition--very well!--it just wouldn't bother to
signal any further advice.
But quite instinctively his hand moved out, tenderly embraced the four
brown chips, and transferred them to the green area dominated by the
black diamond.
"_Twelve, black_--!"
Forty dollars were represented in that stunted pillar of brown wafers!
P. Sybarite experienced an effect of coming to his senses after an
abbreviated and, to tell the truth, somewhat nightmarish nap. Aping
the manner of one or two other players whom he had observed before
this madness possessed him, he thrust the chips out of the charmed
circle of chance, and nodded again (with what a seasoned air!) to the
croupier.
"Cash or chips?" enquired that functionary.
"Oh--cash, thank you."
The chips gathered into the company of their brethren, two
twenty-dollar bills replaced them.
Stuffing these into his pocket, P. Sybarite turned and strolled
indifferently toward the door.
"Better leave while your luck holds," Intelligence counselled.
"Right you are," he admitted fairly. "I'll go home now before anybody
gets this away from me."
"Sensible of you," Intelligence approved.
"Still," suggested the small but clear voice of Greed, "you've got
your original five dollars yet to lose. Be a sport. Don't go without
turning in a cent to the house. It wouldn't look pretty."
"There's something in that," admitted P. Sybarite again.
Nevertheless, he never quite understood how it was that his feet
carried him to the other roulette table, at the end of the salon
opposite that at which he had been playing; or how it was that his
fingers produced and coolly handed over the board, one of the
twenty-dollar notes rather than the modest five he had meant to risk.
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