“It’s a wise man who knows how to work a streak clean through to the finish,” was the retort. “I have my luck with me to-night, and the world is mine. In the morning I shall build a fence around it.”
“Red wins,” quietly announced the croupier.
“You observe how easy it is, I presume,” said Wiley, smiling. “I can’t help it. It’s as natural as breathing.”
Frank saw that it was useless to argue with the sailor, and so he and Hodge left him still playing, while they strolled through the place. There was a dance hall connected, which provided amusement for them a while, although neither danced. Barely half an hour passed before Frank, who was somewhat anxious about Wiley, returned to note how Wiley was getting along.
Luck had turned, and Wiley was losing steadily. Still he continued to bet with the same harebrained carelessness, apparently perfectly confident that his bad luck could not keep up.
“He will go broke within twenty minutes if he sticks to it, Frank,” said Hodge.
Merry nodded.
“That’s right,” he agreed; “but he won’t listen to advice. If we attempt to get him away, we will simply kick up a disturbance and find ourselves in a peck of trouble. Even if he should cash in now and quit ahead of the game, he’d come back to it and lose all he’s won. Therefore we may as well let him alone.”
They did so, and Bart’s prophecy came true. The sailor’s reckless betting lowered his pile so that it seemed to melt like dew before the sun. Finally he seemed to resolve on a grand stroke, and he bet everything before him on the red.
The little ball clicked and whirred in the whirling wheel. The spectators seemed breathless as they watched for the result of that plunge. Slower and slower grew the revolutions of the wheel. The ball spun around on its rim like a cork on the water. At length it dropped.