lose!"
said he to himself, in a low, moaning voice. "There they go--the
fools!----betting away as fresh as ever. Why won't they take warning by
_me?_ beggared, rained as it has left me. May I never! if the red isn't
winning every time now!" And, as he spoke, his eyes followed a great
heap of gold which some fortunate gambler just drew in before him. "How
much did he win, then?" cried Dalton; but none replied to a question so
contrary to every etiquette of the table.

"He never counts it," muttered Peter, as he continued to gaze on the
lucky player with a kind of envious admiration. "They say it's best not
to count one's winnings. I don't know what's best; I believe 't is only
the devil knows--for it was _he_ invented the game.--Red, again, the
winner!"

"Why you no back de red?" whispered the man behind his chair.

Dalton started, and was about to give an angry reply, but corrected
himself, and merely stared stupidly at him.

"You win eleven hundred Napoleons if you do go on," said the other,
showing in proof of his assertion the card on which he had marked all
the chances.

"And where 's the money?" cried Dalton, as, with a hissing utterance, he
spoke, and he pointed to the table before him. "Have I Coutts's bank at
my back, or is all Lombard Street in my pocket? 'T is easy to say, go
on! Red again, by Jingo!"

"I tell you dat!" said the other, gravely.

Dalton turned round in his chair, and stared steadfastly at the speaker.
His mind was in that state of wild confusion when every conception,
however vague and fanciful, assumes a certain degree of reality, and
superstitions take on them all the force of warnings. What if his
prompter were the devil himself! was it not exactly what he had often
heard of? He never saw him there before, and certainly appearances were
not much against the hypothesis. He was tall and spare, with a high,
narrow forehead, and a pair of most treacherous-looking black eyes,
that seemed to let nothing escape their vigilance. Unabashed by or
indifferent to Dalton's scrutiny, he went on with his chronicle of
the game, noting down the chances, and only muttering a few words to
himself.

"Nine times red," said he, as he counted the scores.

"Will it go ten?" asked Dalton, with a purposelike energy that showed
his faith in the oracle; but the other never heeded the question.

"Back de red, I say; back de red dis time," whispered he in Dalton's
ear.

"Don't you see that I have no money?