"Twenty-four—black—passé!"
My town car, my penthouse and my financial independence went whuppety-flicker, like the tag end of a film racheting through a projector. I glared into Hank's bewildered face, bawled at him accusingly,
"See, you dope! All because you—"
He looked dazed, incredulous. He stammered,
"But it had to be the nineteen, Jim! It couldn't be anything else, don't you see? It couldn't—"
"It couldn't," I wailed, "but it was! You—"
Then he was no longer limp, uncertain, at my side. He was making a leaping dive across the table at the croupier. The man yipped once, lunged backward, and a pellet rolled from his hand. It was a duplicate of that which now spun in the roulette wheel, but not quite a dupe!
Instead of solid ivory, I knew it would turn out to have a steel core, responsive to magnetic influence. The only thing that could break down the analytical perfection of Horse-sense Hank was a gimmick! A gimmick is a polite way of describing a cheap gambling trick.
"The durned crook!" Hank was howling. "He gypped me! I knew the nineteen was due! Just as sure as fate it was due!"