"To-day," he mused aloud,
"is the thirteenth of April--"
"The fourteenth," corrected Mr. Penfield: "to-day is only about two
hours old."
"Right you are," admitted P. Sybarite, shifting twenty dollars from
the 13 to the 14. "Careless memory of mine ..."
"_Thirteen, black, odd_...."
"There, now! You see--you spoiled my aim," P. Sybarite complained
peevishly.
"Forgive me," murmured Mr. Penfield while P. Sybarite made another
wager. "Are you in a hurry to break the bank?" he added.
"It's my ambition," modestly confessed the little man, watching a
second twenty gathered in to the benefit of the house. "But I've only
a few minutes more--and you do play such a _darned_ small game."
"Perhaps I can arrange matters for you," suggested Mr. Penfield.
"You'd like the limit removed?"
"Not as bad as all that. Make the maximum a hundred, and I'll begin to
feel at home."
"Delighted to oblige. You won't object to my rolling for you?"
Penfield nodded to the croupier; who (first paying P. Sybarite seven
hundred on his last wager) surrendered his place.
"Not in the least," agreed P. Sybarite, marshalling his chips in
stacks of five: twenty-five dollars each. "It's an honour," he added,
covering several numbers as Penfield deftly set ball and wheel in
motion.
He won the first fall; and encouraged by this, began to play
extravagantly, sowing the board liberally with wagers of twenty-five,
fifty, and one hundred dollars each.
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