THE NEMESIS OF THE DEUCES
FRENCHY called for two cards and reached for a glass and the bottle. His head swam dizzily. The clinking of glasses at the bar smote upon his ears like gongs. He was about to risk upon one “show-down” the realisation of a five-years’ dream. He felt certain of losing; that was the strange thing about it. Yet somewhere in the buzzing back of his head a compelling little devil whispered and he obeyed.
He drank three big ones straight, and for a moment things stood still and the buzzing ceased; but in the sudden silence the hissing of the little devil increased to a roaring like the river’s in the June rise. “All on the deuces! All on the deuces! Every damned cent!” That is what the little devil in the back of his head was howling now.
“But if I lose it all—and wanting to go back home in the spring?” That was the question his pounding heart hurled at the insistent little devil.
“You won once—didn’t you—didn’t you?—DIDN’T YOU?” howled back the little devil jeeringly.
“Five hundred,” said Frenchy quietly. His bronze face had grown livid; his black eyes narrowed and glittered with a steady stare. With a hand that betrayed the least perceptible tremor, he pushed the chips to the centre.
The next man tossed his hand into the discards. The next hesitated, carefully studying the face of Frenchy with a furtive lifting of the eyes under his hat brim; he too laid down his hand.
“Raise you two hundred,” said the next with quiet cheerfulness.
“Two hundred more,” said the next nonchalantly, drumming a devil’s tattoo with his fingers on the table.
The fifth drew a long breath, grinned nervously, showing his teeth like a hungry wolf—and tossed his hand into the discards.