"Fifty-eight! Would you mind checking the numbers, George? . . . Oh! We want a hat! . . ."
A battered old thing was handed up by an octogenarian company promoter, and the proceedings began.
I would a thousand times rather have died from old age than face that terrible ordeal. It was gruesome, piteous, cruel. It seemed as if we were executioners taking part in some frightful Bolshevik rite. And yet it had to be. . . .
One by one, they filed past the Altar of Youth and Death, plunging shaking hands into that innocent-looking symbol of the future, fumbling therein for awhile, and then bringing forth—everything or nothing. A groan, a sigh, a sharp exclamation of despair, or satisfaction, or joy escaped each one of them as they went slowly by.
Some of those who drew the white beans of youth tried to conceal their good luck, as if afraid that their unfortunate brothers might think they were gloating. It was that spirit of consideration more than anything, which moved me almost to tears.
On the other hand, there was one man who branded himself for all time. I should imagine that he was a retired card-sharper.
His crime consisted of taking out three beans, quickly separating the white one from two reds, and dropping the latter back in the hat.
"Put the other back!" rapped out Gran'pa. "You're disqualified, sir."
"It was an accident!" protested the old man. "They stuck to my fingers, and . . ."
"Put it back!" roared Gran'pa. "I'm here to see fair play and I'll get it! . . . Oh, no, you don't. You've had your draw. We can't allow two goes. . . . Move along, please!"