“Yes?” says I, beginning to feel sorry for my hundred.
“Yes. I have observed that, if you play enough, you always lose. You just mathematically must. The percentage is a scientific certain-t-y-ty. My system is to bet high, win, and quit before you begin to lose.”
“How did you ever study it out?” says I, beginning to be glad about my investment again. “I never tried that way, but it sounds promising.”
“Such being the case, I got a hunch,” says Stranger. “Here goes for a gold chain or a wooden leg. Take my hand and watch me peer into the future.”
We wiggled through to the table after a while. The dealer was a voluptuous swell, accentuated with solid gold log chains and ruby rings where convenient. I knew him. He wore a copyrighted smile losing, and a nasty sneer when he won. An overbearing man and opportune, Frenchy, addicted to killing his fellow-man in sheer self-defense, during the absence of his assailant’s friends. Such was his unrefuted statement, the dead gentlemen having never given their testimony. He had been so fortunate in his protections that lots of folks rarely ever went out of their way to annoy him.
Stranger began hostilities by depositing a twenty on the black. Red ensued. Another twenty on black. Black comes. Frenchy shoved over a ten, and Stranger looked pained.
“I bet twenty dollars,” he said, lifting of his brows.
“Ten dollars is the limit for any one bet,” snaps Frenchy, rolling the ball again. “Don’t delay the game. Bet or give up your place.”
“But you took my twenty.” He stopped the wheel. “No bets this whirl,” says Stranger.
The crowd stopped talking and side-stepped for an alibi in case the gentleman should engage in self-defense.