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Page 33
"How many?" the new croupier asked pleasantly.
P. Sybarite pulled a doubtful mouth. Five dollars' worth was all he
really wanted. What on earth would he do with all the chips twenty
dollars would buy? He'd need a bushel measure!
Before he could make up his mind, however, exactly twenty white
counters were meted out to him.
"What are these worth?" he demanded incredulously, dropping into a
chair.
"One dollar each," he was informed.
"Indeed?" he replied, politely smothering a slight yawn.
But he conceived a new respect for those infatuated men who so
recklessly peppered the lay-out with chips--singly and in little piles
of five and ten--worth one-hundred cents each!
However, to save his face, he'd have to go through his twenty. But
after that--exit!
He made this promise to himself.
Prying a single chip apart from its fellows, he tossed it heedlessly
upon the numbered squares. It landed upon its rim, rolled toward the
wheel, and fainted gracefully upon the green compartment numbered 00.
The croupier cocked an eyebrow at him, as if questioning his
intention, at the instant the ivory ball began to sing its song of a
single note. Abruptly it was chattering; in another instant it was
still.
"Double O!" announced a voice.
A player next P. Sybarite swore soulfully.
Thirty-five white chips were stacked alongside the winning stake. With
unbecoming haste P. Sybarite removed them.
"Well," he sighed privately, "there's one thing certain: this won't
last. But I don't like to seem a piker. I'll just make sure of this
one: it can't win. And at that, I'll be another fifteen dollars in."
Deliberately he shifted the nineteen remaining of his original stack
to keep company with his winning chip on the Double O....
A minute or so later the man at his elbow said excitedly: "I'll be
damned if it didn't repeat! Can you beat that--!"
P. Sybarite stared stupidly.
"How's that?" he said.
"Double O," the croupier answered: "the second time."
"This is becoming uncanny," P. Sybarite observed to himself;
and--"Cash!" said he aloud with cold decision.
Seven new one-hundred dollar certificates were placed in his hand. In
a daze he counted, folded, and pocketed them. While thus engaged he
heard the ball spin again. His original twenty dollars remained upon
the double naught. Ten turned up: his stake was gathered in.
"You've had enough," Intelligence advised.
"Perfectly true," P. Sybarite admitted.
This time his anatomy proved quite docile. He found himself at the
foot of the steps, fatuously smiling at the doorkeeper.
"He ain't come in yet," said the latter; "but he's liable to be here
any minute now."
"Oh, yes," said P. Sybarite brightly, after a brief pause--"Mr.
Penfield, of course. Sorry I can't wait."
"Well, you'll want your hat before you go--won't you?"
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