"Sometime your luck will change," warned the dancing girl as the two sat one evening in the early fall at a little table in Stoell's and drank champagne which cost Brent fifty dollars the quart. "And then you'll be broke and——"
Brent who had been idly toying with the rings upon her fingers returned the slender hand to the table. "It can't change. It's a part of me. As long as I'm me, I'll be lucky. Look, I'll show you! You want to marry me—you've told me so. Well, I don't want to marry you, or anyone else—wouldn't know what to do with you if I did marry you. You want me to go back on the claim—well, here's a bargain—just to show you that I can't lose." He pulled a buckskin sack full of gold from his pocket and held it before the girl's eyes. "See this sack. It isn't very big. It can't cover many numbers. I'm going to stand up in this chair and toss it onto the roulette table over there, and play every number it touches. If I lose I lose the dust—Stoell will get that. But that isn't all I'll lose—I'll lose myself—to you. If one of the numbers that this sack falls on don't win, I marry you tonight, and we hit for the claim tomorrow."
The girl stared at him, fascinated: "Do you mean that—you'll quit gambling—and you'll sober up and—and live with me?"
Again Brent laughed: "Yes, I'll quit gambling, and sober up, and live with you till—how does it go—till death us do part."
"Toss it!" The words of the girl came short, with a curious indrawing of the breath, and her fingers clutched at the edge of the table till the knuckles whitened. The men who were crowded about the wheel glanced toward the table at the
sound, and standing in his chair Brent waved them to fall back. Then he told them of his bet—while the dancing girl sat with parted lips, her eyes fastened upon his face. The men at the wheel surged back to give room. The proposition caught their fancy. Ace-In-The-Hole, prince of gamblers, was betting himself—with the odds against him! And every man and woman in the room knew that if he lost he would keep his word to the last letter.
Carefully measuring the distance, Brent balanced the sack in his hand, then with a slow movement of his arm, tossed it onto the table. It struck almost squarely in the center, covering Numbers 13, 14, 16, 17, 19, and 20. The croupier spun the wheel, and sent the ivory ball spinning on its way. The men who had been playing, and the men from the bar, crowded close, their eyes on the whirling wheel. Brent sat down in his chair, lighted a cigarette, and filled the two empty champagne glasses from the bottle. He glanced across at Kitty. She was leaning forward with her face buried in her arms. Her shoulders were heaving with quick, convulsive sobs. In Brent's heart rose sudden pity for this girl. What to him had been a mere prank, a caprice of the moment, was to her a thing of vital import. The black fox fur had fallen away from about her neck exposing a bare shoulder that gleamed white in the light of the swinging lamp. She looked little and helpless, and Brent felt a desire to take her in his arms and comfort her. He leaned
toward her, half rose from his chair and then, at a sound from the table, he settled back.
"Number 13 wins," announced the croupier, and the room was suddenly filled with the voices of many men. The croupier scribbled a notation upon a piece of paper and together with the sack of dust laid it upon the table between Brent and the girl. A moment later she raised her head and stared, dry eyed into Brent's face.
"Here, little girl," he said gently. "Forgive me. I didn't know you really felt—that way. Here, this is all yours—take it. The bet paid six to one. The weigher will cash this slip at the bar."