"Running rotten dives is what he was cut out for," he grunted to himself. "And then trying to pass the buck to me!"
In another mood he might not have done the foolhardy thing he was doing tonight … and again he might. For always was he Bill Steele, who took his chances and was reckless with money. But now, assured that the "wheel" was straight for the simple reason that they would not have dared bring a crooked lay-out into a camp like this, he stood at the table, his money stacked in front of him, his hat pushed far back on his head, his eyes suddenly gone stern. If there were anything in a man's run of luck he meant to test it tonight.
"I'm not betting nickels this trip, pardner," he said quietly to the dealer. "What's your limit?"
Already there were a dozen men drawn up about the table, sensing the beginning of one of those games which are worth being watched. The dealer, measuring Steele gravely with a long, steady look, turned for instructions to Truitt, meanwhile clicking his chips softly.
"Take the roof off for him, Pete," directed Truitt.
"You hear him?" said the sober-faced dealer. "Bet 'em as high as you like, friend."
"If you don't mind," continued Steele, "I'd like to see what you've got in your cash box."
The dealer nonchalantly raised it to the table for Steele's counting. The drawer held in the neighbourhood of two thousand dollars yet. Steele laughed at him.
