"It was the only thing he could do," explained Dimanche. "He had duplicate cards."
The dealer was scowling. He didn't seem quite so much at ease. The cards were dealt and the betting proceeded almost as usual. True, the dealer was nervous. He couldn't sit down and stay down. He was sweating. Again he paid off. Cassal won heavily and he was not the only one.
The crowd around them grew almost in a rush. There is an indefinable sense that tells one gambler when another is winning.
This time the dealer stood up. His leg contacted the stool occasionally. He jerked it away each time he dealt to himself. At the last card he hesitated. It was amazing how much he could sweat. He lifted a corner of the cards. Without indicating what he had drawn, determinedly and deliberately he sat down. The chair broke. The dealer grinned weakly as a waiter brought him another stool.
"They still think it may be a defective circuit," whispered Dimanche.
The dealer sat down and sprang up from the new chair in one motion. He gazed bitterly at the players and paid them.
"He had a blank hand," explained Dimanche. "He made contact with the broadcasting circuit long enough to erase, but not long enough to put anything in it's place."
The dealer adjusted his coat. "I have a nervous disability," he declared thickly. "If you'll pardon me for a few minutes while I take a treatment—"
"Probably going to consult with the manager," observed Cassal.
"He is the manager. He's talking with the owner."