six bets. He lost them. A quarter of an hour later his
entire winnings had passed over the table. He swore, and drew out a
roll of bills. He threw a fifty on the black. Red won. He doubled on
black. Red won. He plunged. He could not win a single bet. He tried
numbers, odd and even, the dozens, splits, squares, column. Fortune
had withdrawn her favor.

"Hell!"

He played his last ten on black, and lost.

"Let me have a hundred."

The banker shook his head and pointed to the signs on the wall:
"Checks for money, money for checks, no mouth-bets."

Bolles felt in his pockets and repeated the futile search.

"Not a damned cent!" he shouted. "Cleaned out!"

"Give Mr. Bolles a ten-spot," said the banker. "But you can't play it
here, Bolles," was the warning.

Bolles stuffed the note in his pocket and rose. He was very drunk; he
himself did not realize how drunk he was till he started for the door.
He staggered and lurched against the sideboard. His hat rolled from
his head. An attendant quickly recovered it, and Bolles slapped it on
his head.

"Get out o' the way! It's a snide game, anyhow. You've got wires on
the machine. You've got seven hundred o' my money, and you give me
ten! Hell!"

They opened the door for him and he stumbled out into the dark,
unlighted hallway. He leaned against the wall, trying to think it out,
searching his pockets again and again. Why in hell hadn't he left some
of the money with the bartender? Broke, clean, flat broke! And he had
pushed his winnings up to three hundred! He became ugly, now that he
fully realized what had happened. He ground his teeth and cursed
loudly; he even kicked the door savagely. Then he swung rather than
walked down the stairs. He turned into the bar and bought three more
whiskies, and was then primed for any deviltry. He was very drunk, but
it was a wide-awake drunkenness, cruel and revengeful. He turned into
the alley and tried to think of some plan by which he could borrow
enough to make a new attempt at fickle fortune. To-morrow he could
strike McQuade again, but to-night McQuade wouldn't listen to him.
Every once in a while he would renew the searching of his pockets, but
there was only the remainder of the ten the banker had given him.

John and Warrington had played an uninteresting game of billiards at
the club, then finally sought the night and tramped idly about the
streets. With Warrington it was sometimes his aunt, sometimes the new
life that bea