She's sure a great little repeater when she gets started, huh, boys? Four hundred again, Mr. Steele?"
"You guessed it, pardner," said Steele.
The four hundred he lost, number eleven winning. Coolly he played eight hundred … and lost. Sixteen hundred … and lost.
"There's another six thousand in the till now, friend," droned Pete. "And plenty room."
A man laughed; Rice scowled at him; Steele smiled and went back the second time to his original bet of two hundred. He caught a glimpse of Embry's face and that look hardened the muscles of his entire body. He emulated the dealer and called for a glass of Shasta.
The two hundred, Bill Rice's four dollars with it, went where the other bets had gone. Steele drank his water, pushed his hat back, bet four hundred. Lost and doubled; lost and doubled. Lost and was aware of the fact that after this brief time of quick play he had paid across the table an even nine thousand dollars. Since he had staked Rice to two hundred he had just eight hundred left. And since every man who watched knew as well as he did just what was left to him, every man of them asked himself:
"Will he stick to the same thing?"
If so he had but three plays left to make should the goddess of chance not alter her attitude toward him, two hundred, four hundred and a final two hundred. But those who had watched thus far knew that he was not the man to drag out a long play; that he took his chances and did not "play for nickels." And they felt
