“Two, red, even,” says Frenchy in a shocked voice, like he was seein’ things at night.
No one could yell—they was a-catching of their breath. And we lays by twelve hundred and fifty more.
“Before proceeding further with my witchcraft,” says Stranger, “I would ask you to set your valuation of layout, lookout, license and good-will. Because,” he says, “any fool can see that the ball stops on the one this time. Science, poetry, logic, romance, sentiment and justice point to it, like spokes to a hub. And if you’re going to bank with that chicken feed”—jerking his chin toward the shattered fragments of the bank roll—“you’ll have to lower your limit ... before I play. Oh, I’m learning fast.”
Frenchy looks unhappy, but there wasn’t nothing to say. His pile wasn’t big enough to pay if Stranger’s predictions was accurate. “Bring me my sack, Brown,” he calls out. Brown opens his safe and lugs over the sack. Frenchy pours it out on the table—ten thousand dollars, bills of all sizes from five to a thousand, and a coffee-pot full of gold. “Shoot,” he says. “You’re faded.”
Stranger eclipses the one spot with ten dollar bills: ten each on corners, the four sides and the middle. “It’s a sure thing—we’d just as well have some side money,” he says, betting ten each on black, odd, first column, first dozen and 1 to 18. “Mr. Brown,” he says, “the gentleman who runs the game will hand you seventy dollars when the ball stops. Drinks for the crowd while it lasts,” and drops ten each on 16 and 2, for luck.
Buz-z-z. The ball hums a cheerful ditty, like hot coffee on a cold day. Buz-z-z—Click.
Frenchy goes into a trance, chewing his mouth. He moistens his lips and makes an effort. “One, black, and odd!” His voice was cracked and horrified.
“What a pleasant dream!” I thinks. “It’s a shame to wake up and wrangle horses, but it must be near day.” I tries to open my eyes, but couldn’t. ’Twas no dream of avarice. Stranger was just visible above a pyramid of deferred dividends.
“Great Democratic gains,” he announces. “Gentlemen—in fact, all of you—what’ll you have?”
“I guess that includes me, all right,” states a big miner. “Strictly speaking, I don’t want no drink now, but, if you’d just as soon tell me what color my old pack-mare’s next colt’ll be, I sh’d be obliged.”