Stakes are re-laid—some changed—others left standing or doubled, as Crozier’s, which is now a bet for two hundred pounds.
On goes the game, the piece of smooth pasteboard slipping silently from the jewelled fingers of the dealer, whose eye is bent upon the cards, as if he saw through them—or would, if he could. But whatever his wish, he has no power to change the chances. If he have any professional tricks, there is no opportunity for him to practise them. There are too many eyes looking on; too many pistols and bowie-knives about; too many men ready to stop any attempt at cheating, and punish it, if attempted.
Again he is compelled to call out:
“Caballo en la puerta mozo!”
“Now, sir,” says the croupier to Crozier, after settling other scores, “you want your money, I suppose?”
“Not yet. I’m not pressed, and can afford to wait. I again go double, and am still contented with my Queen.”
The dealing proceeds; with four hundred pounds lying on the Caballo to Crozier’s account—and ten times as much belonging to other bettors. For now that the luck seems to be running with the Englishman, most lay their stakes beside his.
Once again: “Caballo en la puerta mozo!”
And again Crozier declines to take up his bet.
He has now eight hundred pounds sterling upon the card—sixteen hundred on the turn of the game—while the others, thoroughly assured that his luck is on the run, double theirs, till the bets against the bank post up to as many thousands.