It was now up to Frenchy.
“Pardon me,” said he, “but did you call me?”
His face had turned a dull, ghastly green, but his voice was quiet and clear.
“Raised it.”
“Oh, certainly,” said he, smiling. “Thinking of something else—trip home, I guess.” His voice lowered until it was almost inaudible. This absent-mindedness was unusual for Frenchy.
An oppressive silence had fallen in the barroom of the “Big 6.” There was no longer any clinking of glasses or hum of maudlin voices. The loungers drew up in a hushed circle about the table and stared with fascinated eyes. A “big game” was on—and it was up to Frenchy. Frenchy was no quitter; he was a gambler to his finger-tips. “Frenchy? He’d bet on which’d be the last breath of his dying mother!” That was the way the popular legend ran, and the man lived up to it.
“Stake it all—stake it all on the deuces—the deuces—THE DEUCES!” The little devil in the back of his head was shrieking now and stamping red-hot heels into Frenchy’s brain.
“But the trip home—I’ve planned five years——” urged his pounding heart.
“You won on them once—didn’t you?—didn’t you?—DIDN’T YOU?” reiterated the little devil.
Frenchy quietly poured out another glass and downed it. Then he pulled off his boots, produced a bunch of bills from the bottom of each, put on his boots again and looked at his hand.