The ball ran its course thrice before he moved.  Then abruptly lifting his finger to the croupier:  “Five on the red, Andy,” said he.

“Five on the red,” repeated the croupier; and set aside a chocolate-coloured chip in memorandum of the wager.

When the ball settled again to rest, the announcement was monotonously recited:  “Nine, red, odd, first dozen.”  And the blase prodigal was presented with the chocolate-coloured token.

Carelessly he tossed it upon the red diamond.  Black won.  Unperturbed, he made a second oral bet, this time on black, and lost; increased his wager to ten dollars on black—­and lost; made it twenty, shifted to red, and lost; dropped back to five-dollar bets for three turns of the wheel, and lost them all.  Fifty dollars in debt to the house, he rose, nodded casually to the croupier, left the room.

In mingled envy and amazement P. Sybarite watched him go.  Fancy losing three weeks’ wages and a third of another week’s without turning a hair!  Fancy losing fifty dollars without being required to pay up!

“Looks easy,” meditated P. Sybarite with a thrill of dreadful yearning....

At precisely that instant the torchlight procession penetrated a territory theretofore unaffected, which received it with open arms and tumultuous rejoicings and even went so far as to start up a couple of bonfires of its own and hang out several strings of Japanese lanterns.  In the midst of a confusion of soaring skyrockets and Roman candles vomiting showers of scintillant golden sparks, P. Sybarite was shocked to hear his own voice.

“Five on the red,” it said distinctly, with an effect of extravagant apathy.

A thought later he caught the croupier’s eye and drove the wager home with a nod.  His heart stopped beating.

Five dollars!  All he had in the world!

The whirr of the deadly little ball in its ebony runway was like nothing less than the exultant shriek of a banshee.  Instantaneously (as if an accident had happened in the power house) every light in his body went out and left it cold and dark and altogether dismayed.

The croupier began his chant:  “Three, red—!”

P. Sybarite failed to hear the rest.  All the lights were on again, full blast.  The croupier tossed him a chocolate token.  He was conscious that he touched it with numb and witless fingers, mechanically pushing it upon the red diamond.

Ensued another awful, soul-sickening minute of suspense....

“Twenty-five, red—!”

A second brown chip appeared magically on top of the first.  P. Sybarite regarded both stupidly; afraid to touch them, his brain communicated to his hand the impulse to remove the chips ere it was too late, but the hand hung moveless in listless mutiny.

“Thirty-four red—!”

Two more chips were added to his stack.

And this time his brain sulked.  If his body wouldn’t heed its plain and sagacious admonition—­very well!—­it just wouldn’t bother to signal any further advice.