“How much’ll you risk that you kin do that, Fox?” Roused greed was in the speaker’s tone.
“Oh, make it fur the drinks,” said Fox—“jest fur the drinks. I ain’t aimin’ to take your money away frum you. I got all the money [104] I need.” For the first time he seemed to become aware of a third party and he turned and let a friendly hand fall on the stranger’s shoulder. “Tell you whut, Flem, we’ll make it drinks fur this gent too. Come on, brother,” he added; “you’re in on this. It’s my party if I lose, which I won’t, and ole Flem’s party if he loses, which he shore will.”
It was the warmth of his manner as much as the generosity of his invitation that charmed Mr. Tuttle. The very smile of this man Fox invited friendship; for it was a broad smile, rich in proteids and butterfats. Likewise his personality was as attractively cordial as his attire was striking and opulent.
“‘Slide or slip, let ’er rip!’” said Mr. Tuttle, quoting the poetic words of a philosopher of an earlier day.
“That’s the talk!” said Fox genially. He pushed the dice box across the bar. “Go to it, bo! Roll them bones! The figure is twenty-one!”
From the five cubes in the cup the barkeeper eliminated two. He agitated the receptacle violently and then flirted out the three survivors on the wood. They jostled and crocked against one another, rolled over and stopped. Their uppermost faces showed an ace, a six and a five.
“Twelve!” said Flem.
“Twelve it is,” echoed Fox.
“A dozen raw,” confirmed Gash Tuttle, now thoroughly in the spirit of it.
[105]
“All right, then,” said Fox, flashing a beam of admiration toward the humourist. “Now turn ’em over, Flem—turn ’em over careful.”