"Sedatives wear off," said Cassal. "By the time he knows it's me, see that it has worn off. Mess him up."
The game went on. The situation was too much for the others. They played poorly and bet atrociously, on purpose. One by one they lost and dropped out. They wanted badly to win, but they wanted to live even more.
The joint was jumping, and so was the dealer again. Sweat rolled down his face and there were tears in his eyes. So much liquid began to erode his fixed smile. He kept replenishing it from some inner source of determination.
Cassal looked up. The crowd had drawn back, or had been forced back by hirelings who mingled with them. He was alone with the dealer at the table. Money was piled high around him. It was more than he needed, more than he wanted.
"I suggest one last hand," said the dealer-manager, grimacing. It sounded a little stronger than a suggestion.
Cassal nodded.
"For a substantial sum," said the dealer, naming it.
Miraculously, it was an amount that equaled everything Cassal had. Again Cassal nodded.
"Pressure," muttered Cassal to Dimanche. "The sedative has worn off. He's back at the level at which he started. Fry him if you have to."