“Two calls for twenty-five. Oh, what luck! You’ll win!”
The man in the ill-fitting suit plunged again, and yet again. Twenty-five, fifty, a hundred dollars lay on the board. But always it was just beyond his reach. He must always pay more to win. His roll grew slimmer. At last only one bill remained, a fairly large one. He hesitated, then plunged for the last time.
“Oh! Ho! Too bad!” The voice of the man with the scar had gone flat. “You lost again!” The face of the dupe showed his consternation. He had lost a summer’s savings.
But now a fresh voice broke into the game. A broad-shouldered man with a stubby beard thrust his face close to that of the spindle wheel man.
“That’s a crooked game,” he growled. “I know this man. He’s a truck farmer. Got five kids. He can’t afford to lose. You’ve robbed him. But you can’t get away with it!”
He put out a hand for the money still on the table. But his grasp fell a foot short. With a grunt and a groan he went down. From beneath the table, by a well-practiced trick, the crook had kicked him in the stomach.
The affair seemed over. It was not. Johnny was to be reckoned with. He was fast as lightning and hard as nails. “Strike first, and take the second,” was his motto. The gambler’s foot was not yet on the ground when he received a blow from Johnny’s good right hand that sent him hurtling into the dark. At the same instant, as if by magic, the money on the board vanished and the kerosene flare that lighted the wheel went out.
The next instant Johnny felt some one tugging at his arm and heard a voice whisper hoarsely:
“Snap out of it, can’t you? Want to spill the works? C’mon, let’s get out of here!”
Recognizing the voice as one of authority, Johnny obeyed.