“Suppose my good luck continues?” said Kendall doubtfully.
“Ah, that is not likely,” said Flood calmly. “But you shall have all that you can win. I think you know me to be a man of my word.”
Kendall would have preferred to have the money, but he offered no further objection. He returned the chips desired, and Flood made a memorandum of the amount.
Then the next deal began. It was a repetition of the former, save that now and then, in order to keep the other players in check, Flood was compelled to let Kendall lose. But the latter won heavily on the deal as a whole, his bets being pressed to four figures, and when the final turn was made he had forty-five thousand dollars due him from the bank.
The intense strain to which Moses Flood was subjecting himself was beginning to tell on him. His teeth were hard set. The muscles of his jaw were rigid, and the veins about his temples were purple and swollen. The pupils of his dilated eyes were like points of electric light.
Despite his efforts to the contrary, other players were beginning to win by his manipulation of the cards, and Flood felt that the play must be brought to an end. As he dealt the cards and put them in the box for the third deal, he decided upon the surest and speediest method. He sized the chips in front of Kendall, then made a rapid turn.
One double was in the box. Kendall staked a thousand.
He won his bet fairly, and Flood lost six hundred to the other players. He bit his lip as he paid the bets.
Then he glanced down at the next turn to come, and saw that Kendall was destined to lose. The outsiders also were upon the card to win, following fortune’s favorite. Moses Flood could have won all the bet by making an honest turn. Instead, he took a card—and lost all.
He paid the bets without a change of countenance—then sat back in his chair.