“Of course I do; what other luck could I have? Lose—lose—lose!” said he to himself, in a low, moaning voice. “There they go—the fools!——betting away as fresh as ever. Why won't they take warning by me? beggared, rained as it has left me. May I never! if the red isn't winning every time now!” And, as he spoke, his eyes followed a great heap of gold which some fortunate gambler just drew in before him. “How much did he win, then?” cried Dalton; but none replied to a question so contrary to every etiquette of the table.
“He never counts it,” muttered Peter, as he continued to gaze on the lucky player with a kind of envious admiration. “They say it's best not to count one's winnings. I don't know what's best; I believe 't is only the devil knows—for it was he invented the game.—Red, again, the winner!”
“Why you no back de red?” whispered the man behind his chair.
Dalton started, and was about to give an angry reply, but corrected himself, and merely stared stupidly at him.
“You win eleven hundred Napoleons if you do go on,” said the other, showing in proof of his assertion the card on which he had marked all the chances.
“And where 's the money?” cried Dalton, as, with a hissing utterance, he spoke, and he pointed to the table before him. “Have I Coutts's bank at my back, or is all Lombard Street in my pocket? 'T is easy to say, go on! Red again, by Jingo!”
“I tell you dat!” said the other, gravely.
Dalton turned round in his chair, and stared steadfastly at the speaker. His mind was in that state of wild confusion when every conception, however vague and fanciful, assumes a certain degree of reality, and superstitions take on them all the force of warnings. What if his prompter were the devil himself! was it not exactly what he had often heard of? He never saw him there before, and certainly appearances were not much against the hypothesis. He was tall and spare, with a high, narrow forehead, and a pair of most treacherous-looking black eyes, that seemed to let nothing escape their vigilance. Unabashed by or indifferent to Dalton's scrutiny, he went on with his chronicle of the game, noting down the chances, and only muttering a few words to himself.
“Nine times red,” said he, as he counted the scores.
“Will it go ten?” asked Dalton, with a purposelike energy that showed his faith in the oracle; but the other never heeded the question.