He had missed the prize by a hair. Perhaps the bill he had laid down for this turn was his last. But a friend led him away, still muttering, by the arm, and the gap in the circle which his removal made was quickly closed. The man called Reddy gathered the pile of bills together, separated a small portion, which he swept into the till, and passed the remainder to Stuart.
"Reddy runs things," whispered Faught, not so low but that the bank-tender heard and looked the newcomer over suspiciously. "Comes from the west, a desperado. Just the man to keep them down."
"The bad blood breaks out sometimes?"
"Would if there wasn't a strong hand at the needle."
There was certainly nothing weak about Reddy. He sprawled sidewise in his chair, with his left elbow on the table and his right arm free for a variety of uses—a big-boned ruffian with a sandy face and an eye apparently riveted on the disk before him, but really sweeping in the whole compass of the room. Overhanging eyebrows veiled these furtive glances. As a rule he spoke quietly, in a sepulchral bass, warning the players to adjust their stakes more evenly on the spots, or announcing the winners of the prizes. The recent jar with Perley was something uncommon in the mute and decorous chamber over which Reddy presided.
"It's a new game—roletto; simple as odd or even," explained Faught. "The circle is segmented off into black and white rays, or spots, as we call them——"
"And red?"
"Those are used, too. You see, they are numbered like the others. But they are specially colored for the game with the bank. In the ordinary game some one proposes a stake and puts it down on its lucky number. Then the rest follow suit. Would you like to try this round? It's only a $10 trick."
"Very well."
Shagarach laid his stake down on one of the spaces.