The dealer interposed:
"But it should have been four, five, six, seven, eight," he said. "In the American pack there are seven, eight and nine."
"How ridiculous!" sneered the man. "I have played cards all my life, and never, never have I seen a seven, eight or nine!"
By this time most of the roulette table throng had swarmed in at the door. They added their clamor to ours.
"Of course it is not a straight!"
"Of course it must be! Is there not four, five, six, ten, knave?"
"But the American pack is different!"
"But this is not the United States. This is Mexico!"
"Hey! Pancho!" shouted the dealer. "Go at once and notify the police!"
The situation remained the same. My opponent still lay upon the table with the jack-pot in his arms. A perfect pandemonium of argument filled the place; in some cases it had developed a personal note, and hands were stealing to hips. I unobtrusively pushed my chair against the wall. Presently the Chief of Police arrived with four or five gendarmes. He was a large, unshaven man whose mustaches twisted up to his eyes; dressed in a loose, dirty uniform with red plush epaulettes. As he came in everybody began explaining to him at once. The dealer made a megaphone out of his hands and shouted through the din; the man on the table turned up a livid face, insisting shrilly that it was an outrage for Gringo rules to spoil a perfectly good Mexican game like stud poker.