dollars of counters; that he had blood in his eye. Before the little white ball had come to rest the crowd looking on had doubled, jamming into a tight-packed throng, watching interestedly, held back a pace or two to give Steele room for his play. The couple of men making desultory pikers' bets had drawn back; the dealer had straightened his back and adjusted himself for business; the lookout on the high stool tossed away his stub of a brown cigarette; Flash Truitt had signalled to an aide to take his place, Joe Embry had at last come where he too could watch.
The ball slowed, hesitated, half stopped, came to the full stop on number seventeen.
"Repeater," muttered one of the men who had ceased playing.
While the dealer drew to him Steele's two hundred dollars and again sped the ball in its constricted course, men turned their eyes toward the man who had lost his bet, seeking to see of what stuff he was made. He merely drew slowly at his cigar, his hand quiet on his piled gold pieces, waiting for the ball to leave Pete's fingers.
"Mind if I trail your luck, Bill?" asked a quiet voice at his elbow.
He did not need to turn to see who it was. Bill Rice had come in and forced his way to Steele's side.
"Your lucky horse'll carry double," continued Rice, his hand going down into his pocket. "Fifteen dollars' worth of tickets, Pete. You ain't afraid I'll spoil your play, are you, Bill?"
"Come ahead," returned Steele quietly.
