The Argosy, September 1915 — page 218: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

432 He gambled away a good-paying mine once while he had a big gang of men working, too. Oh, he’s some gambler, all right, Ben is! It’s a crime, though, to see a man of his years go it the way he does.”’ Shorty pulled up his parka and stuck his hands deep in his mackinaw pants-pocket. “ He’s never left that seat now for forty-eight hours; has only drank a few cups of black coffee, and I don’t believe he’s spoken half a dozen words in all that time,’ Three-Fingered ob- served. “Oh, he goes the limit, and then some.” Ben Levi was paying no attention whatever to his surroundings. His eyes left the little, whirling ball only long enough to pile up his winnings or to pick up one of the many stacks of chips in front of him, push it onto the table, and eagerly await the outcome. One by one, the smaller players dropped out to concentrate their atten- tion wholly on the duel between Faro Dick, the dealer, and Ben Levi. Twice during the sitting Ben had reduced the bank-roll of the house to three figures. He didn’t know that, of course. Many times had One - Eyed Riley, the proprietor of the Last Chance, changed the dealers on him in the hope of turning the luck of the house; but it was not until Faro Dick took the deal that luck went his way. Twice on the dropping of the ball had One-Eyed been prepared to hand over the keys of the joint to Ben, and twice, with a long, deep breath of re- lief, had he returned them to his pock- et, staggered to the bar, and drunk a tumblerful of his own hooch, his bloated face a pale green and his eyes protruding. Ben at these times had chips in front of him aggregating sixty thou- sand dollars. Win or lose, his manner never changed, nor did the banter of the dealers affect him at all. “T think I got ye going, Ben,” rasped Dick as he raked in a thousand dollars in chips that Ben had just lost. THE ARGOSY. Levi said never a word, but pushed in two thousand on the green and wait- ed. ‘The crowd held its breath as the little ball spun on its fatal way, trickle, trickle, trickle—now slowing down— now past the white—the red—the blue —then puck! ‘ Ah-h!” came simultaneously from fifty throats as the little ball dropped into the green niche. Just a little pale and with the ghost of a smile, Faro - pushed the ten thousand in chips over to Ben, who stacked them up without a tremor, closely watched by the greedy, envious eyes of the onlookers. He then put three thousand on the black, but it came up red that time. The crowd sighed in sympathy. Alas, many of the lookers-on hadn’t the price of a meal in their pockets, but all of them were intimate with the gyrations of the wheel—to their cost. And there is not the least doubt that had any one made them a present of money for a meal they would have sat down and played, forgetting all about the meal. They possessed a strange appearance in their moccasins, parkas, and fur caps, giving to the scene ,a typical Alaskan atmosphere. “Got you again, Ben!” shouted Faro. “Stack ’em up as high as the roof; that’s our limit. Five thousand on the black, the man says. Nobody else? Away she goes!” | And he spun the ball on its way. “The red wins, gentlemen! Stack ‘em up! Stack ’°em up! Never ven- ture, never win. Bet ’em up, boys!” Ben hesitated as he pushed a stack of chips on the table—paused—drew them back again, and rubbed his fore- head with a long, skinny hand. . He was plainly all in. Raising his head after a long, cal- culating look at his chips, his glance wandered to where the little ball re- posed in one of the niches of the wheel. As he gazed there slowly grew the look of one under a hypnotic spell. Long he looked and steadily, until his eyes glowed like two live coals, EOPMIC LOOKS (E@)