Five dollars! All he had in the world!
The whirr of the deadly little ball in its ebony runway was like nothing less than the exultant shriek of a banshee. Instantaneously (as if an accident had happened in the power house) every light in his body went out and left it cold and dark and altogether dismayed.
The croupier began his chant: "Three, red—!"
P. Sybarite failed to hear the rest. All the lights were on again, full blast. The croupier tossed him a chocolate token. He was conscious that he touched it with numb and witless fingers, mechanically pushing it upon the red diamond.
Ensued another awful, soul-sickening minute of suspense....
"Twenty-five, red—!"
A second brown chip appeared magically on top of the first. P. Sybarite regarded both stupidly; afraid to touch them, his brain communicated to his hand the impulse to remove the chips ere it was too late, but the hand hung moveless in listless mutiny.
"Thirty-four red—!"
Two more chips were added to his stack.
And this time his brain sulked. If his body wouldn't heed its plain and sagacious admonition—very well!—it just wouldn't bother to signal any further advice.