“That’s the stuff!” said Fox with mounting enthusiasm. “How much are you two gents goin’ to bet one another? Make it fur real money—that is, if you’re both game!”
“If he don’t touch the dice at all I’ll bet him fur his whole roll,” said the impetuous newcomer.
“That’s fair enough, I reckin,” said Fox. “Tell you whut—to make it absolutely fair I’ll turn the dice over myself and Flem’ll hold the stakes. Then there can’t be no kick comin’ from nobody whatsoever, kin there?” He faced their prospective prey. “How strong are you?” he demanded, almost sneeringly. “How much are you willin’ to put up against my pardner here?”
“Any amount! Any amount!” snapped back the other, squinting past Fox at Gash Tuttle’s roll until one eye was a button and the other a buttonhole. “Twenty-five—thirty—thirty-five—as much as forty dollars. That’s how game I am.”
Avarice gnawed at the taproots of Gash Tuttle’s being, but caution raised a warning hand. Fifteen was half of what he had and thirty was all. Besides, why risk all on the first wager, [110] even though there was no real risk? A person so impulsively sportive as this victim would make a second bet doubtlessly. He ignored the stealthy little kick his principal accomplice dealt him on the shin. “I’ll make it fur fifteen,” he said, licking his lips.
“If that’s as fur as you kin go, all right,” said the slit-eyed man, promptly posting his money in the outstretched hand of the barkeeper, who in the same motion took over a like amount from the slightly trembling fingers of the challenger.
Squint-eye picked up the dice cup and rattled its occupants.
“Come on now!” he bantered Gash Tuttle. “Whut’ll they add up, tops and bottoms?”
“Twenty-one!” said Mr. Tuttle.
“Out they come, then!”