“Well, never mind that,” said Foote. “I came here to take some of your money away with me. Start the little ball rolling.”
“Hold on a bit,” said Marsten. “I’ve got a lot of your paper now, my buck, and I’d like to see some of your cash before I go in any deeper.”
“You’ve seen all I’ve had since Easter,” said Foote bitterly. “However, I’ve got two hundred and fifty here to play with to-night. Will that satisfy you?”
“Right-o!” said Marsten. “Hand it over, and you can go up to four hundred to-night on the strength of it. If you use up this little wad, you can sign a note for the rest.”
Foote played cautiously at first, and won a little. Then he lost, and, playing more recklessly, soon struck a losing vein that he could not seem to escape. Had he been as wise as he thought himself, he would have known that he did not have a chance; that a wire was concealed in the table leg, and that the man behind the wheel, by touching various buttons beneath his feet, which were hidden by the carpet, could make the ball fall so that he could not win.
The last of his money and his extended credit was exhausted before midnight. And, plead as he would, Marsten would not let him play any more on credit. He had thought to mend his fortune; he was, instead, deeper in debt than ever.
“See here,” said Marsten brutally, “I can’t wait any longer for my money. Either you pay me up within a week or I go to your father with your notes. You can’t defend against them on the ground that they’re for gambling debts. You fixed that when you signed them.”
Foote was terror-stricken.
“I can’t get the money,” he pleaded. “If you give me time, you’ll be paid. You’ll ruin me if you go to my father. And he’ll fight to the end before he pays them.”
“He’ll pay them, all right,” said Marsten grimly. “He won’t want all this in the papers. And as to its ruining you, you ought to have thought of that before you ran into debt. That’s not my lookout, you know.”