However, to save his face, he'd have to go through his twenty. But after that—exit!
He made this promise to himself.
Prying a single chip apart from its fellows, he tossed it heedlessly upon the numbered squares. It landed upon its rim, rolled toward the wheel, and fainted gracefully upon the green compartment numbered 00.
The croupier cocked an eyebrow at him, as if questioning his intention, at the instant the ivory ball began to sing its song of a single note. Abruptly it was chattering; in another instant it was still.
"Double O!" announced a voice.
A player next P. Sybarite swore soulfully.
Thirty-five white chips were stacked alongside the winning stake. With unbecoming haste P. Sybarite removed them.
"Well," he sighed privately, "there's one thing certain: this won't last. But I don't like to seem a piker. I'll just make sure of this one: it can't win. And at that, I'll be another fifteen dollars in."
Deliberately he shifted the nineteen remaining of his original stack to keep company with his winning chip on the Double O....
A minute or so later the man at his elbow said excitedly: "I'll be damned if it didn't repeat! Can you beat that—!"