Nineteen must come sometime, Selden told himself. If it came once, the prince would win back all he had lost. If it came twice, he would be a hundred thousand francs ahead.
Sixteen! That was good—thirty thousand francs, nearly—a gain. But the next numbers were fifteen, thirty-three, three and again six, and the prince had lost another hundred thousand.
Nobody else was playing; it was a battle between the prince and the bank. M. le Directeur des Jeux had come out from his little office to watch it, and to take command if necessary. The prince lighted another cigarette and placed his money again.
Nineteen!
There was a little cheer from the crowd as the croupier counted out the various bets one after the other, and pushed the notes across to the prince.
Again now! And every one pulled for nineteen as the little ball spun gaily around. But it fell into eight, and again the board was swept clean.
That was the beginning of a bad run; six—there was a fatality about that six!—eight again—thirty-three—twelve—two—twenty-four—a little gain there!—fifteen. And then there was a short rally: sixteen—twenty—twenty-three; but never again nineteen. Then another bad run, and the pile of notes under the prince’s hand diminished rapidly. He did not hesitate—always nineteen.
The crowd was beginning to get impatient with him. Why nineteen? Why keep it up when he saw it was not a good number? And as if to mock him, the croupier at the next table could be heard announcing nineteen! But certainly he should change—if not the number, then the table. It was imbecile to keep on like that!
But the prince did not change.