"Don't mention it," insisted P. Sybarite politely. "Not another word of apology—I protest! Indeed, I've managed to divert myself amazingly while waiting.... Thank you," he added in acknowledgment of another seven-hundred-dollar consignment of chips. "To-day," he mused aloud, "is the thirteenth of April—"
"The fourteenth," corrected Mr. Penfield: "to-day is only about two hours old."
"Right you are," admitted P. Sybarite, shifting twenty dollars from the 13 to the 14. "Careless memory of mine ..."
"Thirteen, black, odd...."
"There, now! You see—you spoiled my aim," P. Sybarite complained peevishly.
"Forgive me," murmured Mr. Penfield while P. Sybarite made another wager. "Are you in a hurry to break the bank?" he added.
"It's my ambition," modestly confessed the little man, watching a second twenty gathered in to the benefit of the house. "But I've only a few minutes more—and you do play such a darned small game."
"Perhaps I can arrange matters for you," suggested Mr. Penfield. "You'd like the limit removed?"
"Not as bad as all that. Make the maximum a hundred, and I'll begin to feel at home."
"Delighted to oblige. You won't object to my rolling for you?" Penfield nodded to the croupier; who (first paying P. Sybarite seven hundred on his last wager) surrendered his place.