About twenty minutes later the crowd was shoulder deep about the roulette table. I decided it was time to go take a look-see, and fought my way to Hank's side. When I reached there I found that play had been temporarily halted.
The croupier, green-gilled and glistening with sweat, stood before an almost chipless board. The counters were chin-high before Hank. The manager pressed through, spoke briefly to the croupier, then turned to Hank.
"I understand, sir, you wish to make a final wager against the house. Your entire stake on the fall of a single number?"
Hank nodded, embarrassed at being the center of attention.
"I sorta thought," he gulped, "it might be smart."
I groaned. The chips before Hank were a rainbow. At a rough estimate, he was about thirty grand to the pink. To stake all that on one roll—a 38-to-1 shot for a 35-to-1 return—
"No, Hank!" I tugged his coat sleeve. "Cash in! Don't take a crazy chance like that!"
He looked at me aggrievedly. "But it ain't what you might call a chance, Jim. 'Pears to me like it's a sure thing for number nineteen to come up. Way I see it—" He nodded to the manager. "Let 'er ride. The works on number nineteen."
The manager nodded to the croupier, the croupier set the tiny ball spinning. The crowd tensed, and a white blur chittered its unpredictable path about the whirling wheel. The wheel slowed, the ball slowed, my heart slowed. Then all three swooped into action, the last with a lurching thump. The ball hesitated on the rim of the double-zero, bounced to the 32, jogged to the lip of the 19, settled there—
Then hopped! The watchers groaned, and the voice of the croupier was a high, thin bleat.