Shorty shook his head indignantly, as he spread his chips out in the vicinities of “3,” “11,” and “17,” and tossed a spare chip on the green.
“Hell is sure cluttered with geezers that played systems,” he exposited, as the keeper raked the table.
From idly watching, Smoke became fascinated, following closely every detail of the game from the whirling of the ball to the making and the paying of the bets. He made no plays, however, merely contenting himself with looking on. Yet so interested was he, that Shorty, announcing that he had had enough, with difficulty drew Smoke away from the table.
The game-keeper returned Shorty the gold-sack he had deposited as a credential for playing, and with it went a slip of paper on which was scribbled, “Out—$350.00.” Shorty carried the sack and the paper across the room and handed them to the weigher, who sat behind a large pair of gold-scales. Out of Shorty's sack he weighed three hundred and fifty dollars, which he poured into the coffer of the house.
“That hunch of yours was another one of those statistics,” Smoke jeered.
“I had to play it, didn't I, in order to find out?” Shorty retorted. “I reckon I was crowdin' some just on account of tryin' to convince you they's such a thing as hunches.”
“Never mind, Shorty,” Smoke laughed. “I've got a hunch right now—”
Shorty's eyes sparkled as he cried eagerly: “What is it? Kick in an' play it pronto.”
“It's not that kind, Shorty. Now, what I've got is a hunch that some day I'll work out a system that will beat the spots off that table.”
“System!” Shorty groaned, then surveyed his partner with a vast pity. “Smoke, listen to your side-kicker an' leave system alone. Systems is sure losers. They ain't no hunches in systems.”