And it was in reality a struggle. The bank had abandoned its attitude of disdain, and was directly fighting him. No longer was he a petty “piker” but a foeman worth while. He felt that the eight silent men in black who ran the table were concentrating their wills against his. Psychology was coming into play. He willed that that capricious little ball should go one way; these eight willed it to take another. He would beat them; he would make the ball go where he wanted it to go.
He waited until it was spun; and then, acting from sheer impulse, threw a packet of notes on one of the simple chances. Sometimes he even threw on two chances. The battle swayed. He advanced, he retreated, but only to advance again.
As the spirit of the fight glowed in him, his play increased in boldness. If he fell he would fall gloriously. For once he had the centre of the stage. He would be worthy of the part, of the audience. He began to play on all three simple chances. He won ... and won again. Fortune favoured the brave. Hurrah for the big game! Again a triple shot. Ha! he had lost one of the three that time.... Well, the next time. The grey croupier who was paying did not look at all pleased. No wonder! Handing out mille notes continually from the little grilled box. And the chef de parti was scowling at the little chap who twirled the ball. Hugh won another coup, another fifteen thousand.
“Messieurs, le boule passe.”
The cowards! They were changing the croupier who threw the ball. That one was too unlucky. What a stack of notes he had. Must be nearly a hundred thousand. Ah, the devil! this new man was beating him. He had lost ... lost ... lost. His stack was diminishing. His luck had turned. He heard people asking: “Why doesn’t he stop?” No, he would win back again ... win back. He was dazed. He scarcely knew what he was doing. He was reaching out to play another time when a hand gripped his arm.
“You darned young fool, quit now. Quit while you’re still to the good.”
It was Mr. Gimp. The American dragged him away from the table, followed by the admiring gaze of a hundred eyes. Then in a corner they counted the gains. With his own capital he had fifty-five thousand francs.
He sat on a leather seat in a stupor. He wanted to smoke a cigarette, to go home, but did not have energy enough. Then, when he was finally starting the stranger’s door swung open and Professor Durand made his first entrance into the Rooms.