The stranger was again at the board. He rolled again. By some freak of chance, this time he won.
“Zwenty-four. Dot vins,” said the faker. “Vot do you choose?” His voice held a note of irritation.
“What would you suggest?” the stranger asked, turning to Johnny.
It was with the greatest of difficulty that Johnny focussed his mind on this simple task which at other times and under different circumstances would have been a pleasure.
Then a sudden inspiration came to him. At the far corner, and on the top shelf, was a silver pitcher. If the stranger asked for that the man’s back, while he was taking it down, would be turned long enough for Johnny to prepare a flash.
“I’d take that pitcher,” he said steadily, at the same time pointing to the pitcher.
“Are you ready?” he whispered to Mazie.
“Ready,” she answered back.
“When he turns,” he whispered. There followed ten seconds of suspense which was ended by a loud pop and a blinding flash of light.
The silver pitcher fell with a thump at Johnny’s feet. The astonishment and rage of the man conducting the game was a thing to marvel at. His face went white, then purple. As if to snatch the camera away, he leaped at Mazie. She forced her way back into the crowd. Then, just as it seemed that matters were at their worst, there came a wild cry: