"Pretty nearly three. Why?"
"Call it three," George said.
He gathered the dice from the table. The others drew back, leaving, as it were, the ring clear.
"I'll throw you just once," George said, "for three hundred. High man to throw. On?"
"Sure," Dalrymple said, thickly.
George counted out his money and placed it on the table. He threw a five. Dalrymple couldn't do better than a four. George rattled the dice, and, rather craving some of the other's Senegambian chatter, rolled them. They rested six and four. Dalrymple didn't try to hide his delight.
"Stung, old George Morton! Never come a ten again."
"There'll come another ten," George promised.
He continued to roll, a trifle self-conscious in his silence, while Dalrymple bent over the table, desirous of a seven, while the others watched, absorbed.
Sixes and eights fell, and other numbers, but for half-a-dozen throws no seven or ten.