FullReads

“For small stakes?” said the grimy quack, in a gloating voice.

Rawley nodded, and then added: “We stop at eleven o’clock, unless I’ve lost or won all before that.”

“And stake what’s left on the last throw?”

“Yes.”

There was silence for a moment, in which Rawley seemed to grow older, and a set look came to his mouth–a broken pledge, no matter what the cause, brings heavy penalties to the honest mind. He shut his eyes for an instant, and, when he opened them, he saw that his fellow-gambler was watching him with an enigmatical and furtive smile. Did this Caliban have some understanding of what was at stake in his heart and soul?

“Play!” Rawley said, sharply, and was himself again.

For hour after hour there was scarce a sound, save the rattle of the dice and an occasional exclamation from the old man as he threw a double-six. As dusk fell, the door had been shut and a lighted lantern was hung over their heads.

Fortune had fluctuated. Once the old man’s pile had diminished to two notes, then the luck had changed and his pile grew larger; then fell again; but, as the hands of the clock on the wall above the blue medicine bottles reached a quarter to eleven, it increased steadily throw after throw.

Now the player’s fever was in Rawley’s eyes. His face was deadly pale, but his hand threw steadily, calmly, almost negligently, as it might seem. All at once, at eight minutes to eleven, the luck turned in his favor, and his pile mounted again. Time after time he dropped double-sixes. It was almost uncanny. He seemed to see the dice in the box, and his hand threw them out with the precision of a machine. Long afterward he had this vivid illusion that he could see the dice in the box. As the clock was about to strike eleven he had before him three thousand eight hundred dollars. It was his throw.

“Two hundred,” he said, in a whisper, and threw. He won.

With a gasp of relief, he got to his feet, the money in his hand. He stepped backward from the table, then staggered, and a faintness passed over him. He had sat so long without moving that his legs bent under him. There was a pail of water with a dipper in it on a bench. He caught up a dipperful of water, drank it empty, and let it fall in the pail again with a clatter.

“Dan,” he said, abstractedly–“Dan, you’re all safe now.”

Then he seemed to wake, as from a dream, and looked at the man at the table. Busby was leaning on it with both hands, and staring at Rawley like some animal jaded and beaten from pursuit. Rawley walked back to the table and laid down two thousand dollars.

“I only wanted two thousand,” he said, and put the other two thousand in his pocket.

The evil eyes gloated, the long fingers clutched the pile and swept it into a great inside pocket. Then the shaggy head bent forward.

“You said it was for Dan,” he said–“Dan Welldon?”

Rawley hesitated. “What is that to you?” he replied, at last.

With a sudden impulse the old impostor lurched round, opened a box, drew out a roll, and threw it on the table.

“It’s got to be known sometime,” he said, “and you’ll be my lawyer when I’m put into the ground–you’re clever. They call me a quack. Malpractice–bah! There’s my diploma–James Clifton Welldon. Right enough, isn’t it?”

Rawley was petrified. He knew the forgotten story of James Clifton Welldon, the specialist, turned gambler, who had almost ruined his own brother–the father of Dan and Diana–at cards and dice, and had then ruined himself and disappeared. Here, where his brother had died, he had come years ago and practised medicine as a quack.

“Oh, there’s plenty of proof, if it’s wanted!” he said. “I’ve got it here.” He tapped the box behind him. “Why did I do it? Because it’s my way. And you’re going to marry my niece, and’ll have it all some day. But not till I’ve finished with it–not unless you win it from me at dice or cards…. But no”–something human came into the old, degenerate face–“no more gambling for the man that’s to marry Diana. There’s a wonder and a beauty!” He chuckled to himself. “She’ll be rich when I’ve done with it. You’re a lucky man–ay, you’re lucky.”

Rawley was about to tell the old man what the two thousand dollars was for, but a fresh wave of repugnance passed over him, and, hastily drinking another dipperful of water, he opened the door. He looked back. The old man was crouching forward, lapping milk from the great bowl, his beard dripping. In disgust he swung round again. The fresh, clear air caught his face.

With a gasp of relief he stepped out into the night, closing the door behind him.