And out they did come, dancing together, tumbling and somersaulting, and finally halting—a deuce, a trey and a four.
“Three and two is five and four is nine,” Gash Tuttle read off the pips. “Now turn ’em over!” he bade Fox. “That’s your job—turn ’em over!” He was all tremulous and quivery inside.
In silence Fox drew the nearest die toward him and slowly capsized it. “Four,” he announced.
He flipped the deuce end for end, revealing its bottom: “Five!”
He reached for the remaining die—the four-spot. Dragging it toward him, his large fingers [111] encompassed it for one fleeting instance, hiding it from view entirely; then he raised his hand: “Six!”
“Makin’ twenty-one in all,” stuttered Gash Tuttle. He reached for the stakes.
“Nix on that quick stuff!” yelled his opponent, and dashed his hand aside. “The tops come to nine and the bottoms to fifteen—that’s twenty-four, the way I figger. You lose!” He pouched the money gleefully.
Stunned, Gash Tuttle contemplated the upturned facets of the three dice. It was true—it was all too true! Consternation, or a fine imitation of that emotion, filled the countenances of Flem and of Fox.
“That’s the first time I ever seen that happen,” Fox whispered in the loser’s ear. “Bet him again—bet high—and git it all back. That’s the ticket!”
Mr. Tuttle shook his head miserably, but stubbornly. For this once, in the presence of crushing disaster, the divine powers of retort failed him. He didn’t speak—he couldn’t!