“This is the life,” Johnny murmured, as he sauntered over the well-worn path that led from booth to booth. “And then again, I wonder if it is. I—”
He broke short off to stare ahead, for in spite of the lateness of the hour he saw just before him, crowded about a dimly lighted booth, an interested and excited group of men.
“You’re lucky,” said a short dark man with a scar above his eyes, patting a slim man in an ill-fitting suit on the back as Johnny arrived. “You paid only half a dollar. Now see! You may win ten. Put down your dollar quick before he stops the game!”
Johnny recognized the swarthy individual behind the spindle wheel. His wheel carried cheap baubles while the lights were on. Now only numbers remained.
“Playing for money. Breaking the law,” the boy thought. “Big stakes if he can get them. Wonder if he could be Greasy Thumb?” He crowded closer.
“Say, Mister!” pleaded the man with the scar over his eye. “Let me have his chance!”
The man in the ill-fitting suit squared his shoulders. “I’ll take it myself.” He peeled a sticky dollar bill off a meagre roll.
He played.
Johnny was disgusted. The man with the scar was a capper, one of the gang of crooked gamblers. He would lead this dupe on and on, and finally take all his money and leave him flat.
Johnny listened. They were at it again.