Albert Benton played with unusual good fortune. He had been in the habit of bewailing his poor luck, but to-night the fates seemed to favor him. The little pile of gold before him gradually increased, until he had four hundred and seventy-five dollars.
“Twenty-five dollars more, and then I will stop,” he said. “To-morrow I will give notice to Smithson and get ready to leave Sacramento.”
But instead of winning the sum desired, he began to lose. He lost twenty-five dollars, and in desperation staked fifty. Should he win he would still have five hundred dollars, and then he would leave off. Upon that he was quite determined. But again he lost. He bit his lips, his face flushed, his hands trembled, and there was a gleam of excitement in his eye. He had no thought of leaving off now. It must be five hundred dollars or nothing!
There is no need to follow him through his mutations of luck. At the end of an hour he rose from the table without a dollar. He had enough, however, to buy a glass of whiskey, which he gulped down, and then staggered out of the gambling-house.
“I was so near, and yet I lost!” he said to himself bitterly. “Why didn’t I keep the four hundred and seventy-five dollars when I had it, and get the other from the restaurant? I have been a fool—a besotted fool!”
He pulled down his hat over his eyes and bent his steps homeward, where he tossed all night, unable to sleep.
But in the morning his courage returned.
“After all,” he reflected, “I am only ten dollars worse off than when I entered the gambling house, and that was money I took from Smithson. I’ve had a pretty good lesson. The next time fortune smiles upon me I’ll make sure of what I have won, and leave off in time.”
Vincent went straight from the gambling-house to the house of his friend Smithson. The latter came down stairs half dressed and let him in.
“What brought you here so late?” he asked, rubbing his eyes.