Hun Shanklin’s eye was burning the backs of those aristocrats of the currency as he lifted his box.
“That’s more like it,” he commended. “I can play with a gentleman that carries them things around with him all night, even if I lose at every throw.”
“Hold on!” said the doctor as Hun was tilting the 161 box to throw. “Cover that money before you throw. I’ve got six hundred dollars down there, and I want you to count out three thousand by the side of it.”
“Well, I’ve got the money, friend, if that’s what you doubt,” said Shanklin, with a lofty air of the injured gentleman.
He drew a sheaf of bills from the valise and, in the stillness of awe which had come over the crowd, counted down the required amount.
“I’ve won fortunes, gentlemen, and I’ve lost ’em,” said Shanklin, taking up the box again. “Keep your eye on the dice.”
He was so certain of what would come out of the box that he reached for the money before the dice had settled, ready to sweep it away. But a change came over his face, as of sudden pain, when he saw the result of the throw, and with a little dry snort his hand shot out toward the revolver which lay beside his valise.
The little man with whiskers, admirably cool, got there first. Hun Shanklin was looking into the end of his own gun, and unloading, through the vent of his ugly, flat mouth, the accumulated venom of his life. He was caught in his own trap by a sharper man than himself, a being that up to that minute he had believed the world could not produce.
Dr. Slavens quickly gathered the money. The others around the table, blazing now in their desire to get a division of fortune’s favors, put down their bets and called loudly for the gamekeeper to cover them. 162
“Game’s closed,” Shanklin announced, shutting up his valise, into which he had tossed both dice and box.