Chapter Thirty.
Fighting the Tiger.
At sight of De Lara and Calderon, the English officers stand speechless, as if suddenly struck dumb; for a pang has shot through their hearts, bitter as poison itself.
Crozier feels it keenest, since it is an affair which most concerns him. The suitor of Carmen Montijo a “sport”—a common gambler!
Cadwallader is less affected, though he too is annoyed. For although Calderon is in the circle of outside players—apparently a simple punter, like the rest—the companionship of the morning, with the relations existing between the two men, tell of their being socially the same. He already knows his rival to be a blackguard; in all likelihood he is also a blackleg.
Quick as thought itself, these reflections pass through the minds of the young Englishmen; though for some time neither says a word—their looks alone communicating to each other what both bitterly feel.
Fortunately, their surprise is not noted by the players around the table. Each is engrossed in his own play, and gives but a glance at the new-comers, whose naval uniforms are not the only ones there.
But there are two who take note of them in a more particular manner: these, Faustino Calderon and Francisco de Lara. Calderon, looking along the table—for he is on that same side—regards them with glances furtive almost timid. Very different is the manner of De Lara. At sight of Crozier he suspends the deal, his face suddenly turning pale, while a spark of angry light flashes forth from his eyes. The passionate display is to all appearance unobserved; or, if so, attributed to some trifling cause, as annoyance at the game going against him. It is almost instantly over; and the disturbed features of the Monté dealer resume their habitual expression of stern placidity.
The English officers having recovered from their first shock of astonishment, also find restored to them the faculty of speech; and now exchange thoughts, though not about that which so disturbs them. By a sort of tacit understanding it is left to another time, Crozier only saying—
“We’ll talk of it when we get aboard ship. That’s the place for sailors to take counsel together, with a clear head, such as we will want. At this precious minute, I feel like a fish out of water.”
“By Jove! so do I.”
“The thing we’re both thinking of has raised the devil in me. But let us not bother about it now. I’ve got something else in my mind. I’m half-mad, and intend fighting the tiger.”
“Fighting the tiger! What do you mean by that, Ned? I don’t quite comprehend.”
“You soon will. If you wish it, I’ll give you a little preliminary explanation.”
“Yes, do. Perhaps I can assist you.”
“No, you can’t. There’s only one who can.”
“Who is he?”
“It is not a he, but a she: the Goddess of Fortune. I intend soliciting her favours; if she but grant them, I’ll smash Mr De Lara’s Monté bank.”
“Impossible! There’s no probability of your being able to do that.”
“Not much probability, I admit. Still there’s a possibility. I’ve seen such a thing done before now. Bold play and big luck combined will do it. I’m in for the first; whether I have the last, remains to be seen. In any case, I’ll either break the bank, or lose all I’ve got on me—which by chance is a pretty big stake to begin with. So here goes!”
Up to this time their conversation has been carried on in a low tone; no one hearing or caring to listen to it—all being too much absorbed in their own calculations to take heed of the bets or combinations of others. If any one gives a glance at them, and sees them engaged in their sotto-voce dialogue, it is but to suppose they are discussing which card they had best bet upon—whether the Sota or Caballo; and whether it would be prudent to risk a whole dollar, or limit their lay to the more modest sum of fifty cents.
They who may have been thus conjecturing, with everybody else, are taken by surprise, in fact, somewhat startled, when the older of the two officers, bending across the table, tosses a hundred pound Bank of England note upon the baize, with as much nonchalance as if it were but a five-dollar bill!
“Shall I give you cheques for it?” asks the croupier, after examining the crisp note—current over all the earth—and knowing it good as gold.
“No,” answers Crozier; “not yet. You can give that after the bet’s decided—if I win it. If not, you can take the note. I place it on the Queen, against the Knave.”
The croupier, simply nodding assent, places the note as directed.
During the interregnum in which this little episode occurs, the English officers, hitherto scarce noticed, are broadly stared at, and closely scrutinised—Crozier becoming the cynosure of every eye. He stands it with a placid tranquillity, which shows him as careless about what they may think him, as he is of his cash.
Meanwhile, the cards have had a fresh shuffle, and the deal begins anew; all eyes again turning upon the game. In earnest expectancy; those who, like Crozier, have placed upon the Queen, wishing her to show her face first. And she does.
“Caballo en la puerta mozo!” (The Queen in the door wins) cries the dealer, the words drawled out with evident reluctance, while a flash of fierce anger is seen scintillating in his eyes.
“Will you take it in cheques?” asks the croupier addressing himself to Crozier, after settling the smaller bets. “Or shall I pay you in specie?”
“You needn’t pay yet. Let the note lie. Only cover it with a like amount. I go it double, and again upon the Queen.”
Stakes are re-laid—some changed—others left standing or doubled, as Crozier’s, which is now a bet for two hundred pounds.
On goes the game, the piece of smooth pasteboard slipping silently from the jewelled fingers of the dealer, whose eye is bent upon the cards, as if he saw through them—or would, if he could. But whatever his wish, he has no power to change the chances. If he have any professional tricks, there is no opportunity for him to practise them. There are too many eyes looking on; too many pistols and bowie-knives about; too many men ready to stop any attempt at cheating, and punish it, if attempted.
Again he is compelled to call out:
“Caballo en la puerta mozo!”
“Now, sir,” says the croupier to Crozier, after settling other scores, “you want your money, I suppose?”
“Not yet. I’m not pressed, and can afford to wait. I again go double, and am still contented with my Queen.”
The dealing proceeds; with four hundred pounds lying on the Caballo to Crozier’s account—and ten times as much belonging to other bettors. For now that the luck seems to be running with the Englishman, most lay their stakes beside his.
Once again: “Caballo en la puerta mozo!”
And again Crozier declines to take up his bet.
He has now eight hundred pounds sterling upon the card—sixteen hundred on the turn of the game—while the others, thoroughly assured that his luck is on the run, double theirs, till the bets against the bank post up to as many thousands.
De Lara begins to look anxious, and not a little downhearted. Still more anxious, and lower in heart, appears him seated on the opposite side—Calderon; for it is his money that is moving away. He is visibly excited. On the contrary, Crozier is as cool as ever, his features set in a rigid determination to do what he promised—break the bank, or lose all he has got about him. The last, not likely yet, for soon again comes the cry:
“The Queen winner!”
There is a pause longer than usual, for the settling of such a large score; and after it an interval of inaction. The dealer seems inclined to discontinue; for still lying upon the Queen is Crozier’s stake, once more doubled, and now counting three thousand two hundred pounds!
Asked if he intends to let it remain, he replies sneeringly:
“Of course I do; I insist upon it. And once more I go for the Queen. Let those who like the Knave better, back him!”
“Go on! Go on!” is the cry around the table, from many voices speaking in tone of demand.
De Lara glances at Calderon furtively, but, to those observing it, with a look of interrogation. Whatever the sign, or answer, it decides him to go on dealing.
The bets are again made; to his dismay, almost everybody laying upon the Queen, and, as before, increasing their stakes. And in like proportion is heightened the interest in the game. It is too intense for any display of noisy excitement now. And there is less throughout the saloon; for many from the other tables, as all the saunterers, have collected round, and standing several deep, gaze over one another’s shoulders, with as much eager earnestness as if a man were expiring in their midst.
The ominous call at length comes—not in clear voice, or tone exultant, but feeble, and as if rung reluctantly from the lips of the Monté dealer. For it is again a verdict adverse to the bank:
“Caballo en la puerta mozo!”
As De Lara utters the words, he dashes the cards down, scattering them all over the table. Then rising excitedly from his chair, adds in faltering tone:
“Gentlemen, I’m sorry to tell you the bank’s broke!”