"What is it?"
"That you go immediately home."
"I will," said Perley.
From now on the play became more and more exciting, as the champagne began to work in the veins of the gamblers. Once again Harry Arnold won, then lost and lost again. Still he laid down bill after bill from a bulky roll, sometimes leading at the simple game, oftener challenging the bank. As luck turned against him (if luck it were) his temper changed. He grew hilarious, but at the same time savage. Once or twice his differences with Reddy promised to culminate in a serious quarrel, but each time the coolness of the experienced bank-tender prevailed. Shagarach paid no attention to Kennedy, little to Faught. He was studying the soul of Prince Charming.
When Harry came over and demanded brandy and struck the bar with his clenched fist because he could not have it, every one knew that his wad of crisp bills had shrunken to almost nothing. But still he would not surrender.
"The whole pile," he cried, laying the roll down opposite a red spot. It was the same one he had played all the evening. Reddy counted the money coolly.
"A thousand is all we go," he said, returning one bill to Arnold—the last poor remnant of Rabofsky's loan.
"I challenge you to play higher. I dare you to give me my revenge."
"There's only a hundred over and you'll need more than that to settle your outside bets with," answered Reddy, as if victory for the bank were a foregone conclusion. Three others, carried away by the force of play, put down stakes of $1,000 each and all of the reds were covered. Reddy snapped the needle with his forefinger as carelessly as a schoolboy twirling a card on a pin. Four necks craned over, four lungs ceased to draw breath, while it slowly, slowly paused.
"Mine!" exulted Harry, stretching forth his hand; but Reddy intercepted it.