He pushed a hundred and eighty dollars in chips toward Brainard. The young man flushed through his tan. A wild hope had flared in his heart. He resumed his play with tautened nerves and a softened light in his frank eyes. Belated luck must fall along the "middle row" he thought, and he covered Brown's "pet numbers" with chips, in the squares, on the dividing lines and in the corners. "Seventeen" won, and he gathered in his spoils without trying to count them. Then he threw his chips at random, on numbers and on colors, and the blind goddess was strangely kind almost with every turn of the wheel.
"Toodles" Brown ceased playing and looked at his chum wide-eyed. Brainard was exchanging some stacks of chips for bills, and others for chips of higher values, until he was staking the limit allowed on a number.
"For Heaven's sake call it off!" whispered Brown. "It can't last any longer. Pull out while you're ahead, and let me count it for you. You've nearly two thousand here."
