he waited, curious as to the destination of the small loan he had
just made.

Blodgett with tact threw for reasonable stakes. Roger's play was
necessarily small, and he seemed ashamed of the fact. Lambert put plenty
on the table, but urged no takers. Wandel varied his wagers. Dalrymple
covered everything he could, and had luck.

George studied the intent figures, the eager eyes, as the dice flopped
across the table; listened to the polished voices raised to these toys
in childish supplications that sang with the petulant accents of
negroes. Simultaneously he was irritated and entertained, experiencing a
vague, uneasy fear that a requisite side of life, of which this folly
might be taken as a symbol, had altogether escaped him. He laughed aloud
when Wandel sang something about seven and eleven. His voice resembled a
negro's as the peep of a sparrow approaches an eagle's scream.

"What you laughing at, great man? One must talk to them. Otherwise they
don't behave, and you see I rolled an eleven. Positive proof."

He gathered in the money he had won.

"Shooting fifty this time."

"Why not shoot?" Dalrymple asked George. "'Fraid you couldn't talk to
'em?"

"Thing doesn't interest me."

"No sport, George Morton."

It was the way it was said that arrested George. Trust Dalrymple when he
had had enough to drink to air his dislikes. The others glanced up.

"How much have you got there?" George asked quietly.

With a slightly startled air Dalrymple ran over his money.

"Pretty nearly three. Why?"

"Call it three," George said.

He gathered the dice from the table. The others drew back, leaving, as
it were, the ring clear.

"I'll throw you just once," George said, "for three hundred. High man to
throw. On?"

"Sure," Dalrymple said, thickly.

George counted out his money and placed it on the table. He threw a
five. Dalrymple couldn't do better than a four. George rattled the dice,
and, rather craving some of the other's Senegambian chatter, rolled
them. They rested six and four. Dalrymple didn't try to hide his
delight.

"Stung, old George Morton! Never come a ten again."

"There'll come another ten," George promised.

He continued to roll, a trifle self-conscious in his silence, while
Dalrymple bent over the table, desirous of a seven, while the others
watched, absorbed.

Sixes and eights fell, and other numbers, but for half-a-dozen throws no
seven or ten.

"Come you seven!" Dalrymple sang.

"You'