Frenchy bares his teeth and snarls. “You lost. I got the mon. Why didn’t you inquire? You orter understand a game before you buck it. This is my game and my rules goes. See?”
“I see,” says Stranger quiet. “Give me tens for these twenties, please.”
Snickers from the crowd. Frenchy had them Buffaloed to a standstill. All the same, they had no use for a fellow that let his rights be trampled on this way. And yet Stranger didn’t look noways like a man of patient proclivities, given to turning the other cheek. Some wise ones cashed their chips when they remarked his easy smile.
When Frenchy began to roll again we had the table mostly to ourselves. I moves over by the wheel to watch the lookout, him having a game eye and a propensity to be sole witness for Frenchy when his life was attempted.
“I will now declare myself as for W. J. Bryan,” says Stranger, dropping ten each on the squares marked 16, 2, 1.
“Twenty-seven, red, odd and McKinley,” drones Frenchy, and scoops our thirty.
Stranger strings thirty more on 16, 2, 1.
“Nine, black, odd! Great Republican gains!”
Frenchy’s singsong was plumb exasperating.
Stranger adorns his three numbers again with his last thirty, and, as an afterthought, put his rare old iron dollar on single 0.