He won again. "Now, sixteen even. Come on; I 've got you beat."
"But what's th' use of stringin' 'long like that?" demanded the shell-man.
"Gimme a chance to get my hand in, won't you?" retorted the puncher.
"Well, all right," replied the gambler, and he lost the sixteen.
"Now thirty," suggested the puncher. "Next time all I 've got, every red cent. Once more to practice—then every red," he repeated, shifting his feet nervously. "I 'll clean you out an' have a real, genuine blow-out on yore money. Come on, I 'm in a hurry."
"I 'll fool you this time, by th' Lord!" swore the gambler, angrily. "You've got more luck than sense. An' I 'll fool you next time, too. Yo 're quicker 'n most men I 've run up agin, but I can beat you, shore as shootin'. Th' game's square, th' play fair—my hand agin yore eye. Ready? Then watch me!"
He swore luridly and shoved the money across the board to the winner, bewailing his slowness and getting angrier every moment. "Yo 're th' cussedest man I ever bet agin! But I'll get you this time. You can't guess right all th' time, an' I know it."
"There she is; sixty-two bucks, three score an' two simoleons; all I 've got, every cent. Let's see you take it away from me!"
The gambler frowned and choked back a curse. He had risked sixty dollars to win two, and the fact that he had to let this fool play again with the fire hurt his pride. He had no fear for his money—he knew he could win at every throw—but to play that long for two dollars! And suppose the sucker had quit with the sixty!
"Do you get a dollar a month?" he demanded, sarcastically. "Well, I reckon you earn it, at that. Thought you had money, thought you drew down two months' pay an' hain't had nothin' more'n two drinks? Did you go an' lose it on th' way?"