As we advanced, we heard only the rattle of the ball, the click
of the chips, and the monotonous tone of the spinner:
"Twenty-three, black. Eight, red. Seventeen, black." It was
almost like the boys in a broker's office calling off the
quotations of the ticker and marking them up on the board.
Leaning forward, almost oblivious to the rest, was Percival
DeLong, a tall, lithe, handsome young man, whose boyish face ill
comported with the marks of dissipation clearly outlined on it.
Such a boy, it flashed across my mind, ought to be studying the
possible plays of football of an evening in the field-house after
his dinner at the training-table, rather than the possible
gyrations of the little platinum ball on the wheel.
"Curse the luck!" he exclaimed, as "17" appeared again.
A Hebrew banker staked a pile of chips on the "17" to come up a
third time. A murmur of applause at his nerve ran through the
circle. DeLong hesitated, as one who thought, "Seventeen has come
out twice--the odds against its coming again are too great, even
though the winnings would be fabulous, for a good stake." He
placed his next bet on another number.
"He's playing Lord Rosslyn's system, to-night," whispered my
friend.
The wheel spun, the ball rolled, and the croupier called again,
"Seventeen, black.
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