But sometimes chance overthrows the best-laid plans of cleverness and foresight.  And this remarkable plan of McQuade’s was deranged by a chance guess by Patty.

Meantime at Martin’s it was growing lively.  The bar was crowded, the restaurant was being liberally patronized, and persons went up the stairs that did not return.  Jordan paid the check, and he and Osborne went out.

“When’ll they go out, Ben?”

“Monday.”

“Too bad.  I wish I’d been sober.”

“I’ll break Morrissy’s head one of these fine days.  Let’s go over to Johnny’s; there’s music over there.”

“All right, Ben.”

“And no more booze, mind.”

“Just as you say.”

Up stairs the gambling-den was doing a good business.  The annual trotting meet had brought many sporting men to town.  They were standing around the faro table; the two roulette wheels were going, and the Klondike machine spun ceaselessly.  There were a dozen stacks of chips in front of Bolles.  He was smiling, flushed with triumph and whisky.

“Three hundred to the good, old boy!” he said to the man who spun the ivory ball.  “I’ll break you fellows to-night.”

“Bring Mr. Bolles another whisky,” said the proprietor.

“I’ll take all you can bring.”

“You’re a tank, sure.”

“You bet!” Bolles grinned.

So did the banker, covertly.  He had seen the comedy played a thousand times.  Few men ever took away their winnings, once they started in to drink, and Bolles was already drunk.  He lost his next bet.  He doubled and lost again.  Then he stacked his favorite number.  The ball rolled into it, but jumped the compartment, wizard-wise, and dropped into single-o.  Bolles cursed the luck.  Another whisky was placed at his elbow.  He drank it at a gulp.

“Make the limit five,” he cried.

The banker nodded to the man at the wheel.

Bolles made six bets.  He lost them.  A quarter of an hour later his entire winnings had passed over the table.  He swore, and drew out a roll of bills.  He threw a fifty on the black.  Red won.  He doubled on black.  Red won.  He plunged.  He could not win a single bet.  He tried numbers, odd and even, the dozens, splits, squares, column.  Fortune had withdrawn her favor.

“Hell!”

He played his last ten on black, and lost.

“Let me have a hundred.”

The banker shook his head and pointed to the signs on the wall:  “Checks for money, money for checks, no mouth-bets.”

Bolles felt in his pockets and repeated the futile search.

“Not a damned cent!” he shouted.  “Cleaned out!”

“Give Mr. Bolles a ten-spot,” said the banker.  “But you can’t play it here, Bolles,” was the warning.

Bolles stuffed the note in his pocket and rose.  He was very drunk; he himself did not realize how drunk he was till he started for the door.  He staggered and lurched against the sideboard.  His hat rolled from his head.  An attendant quickly recovered it, and Bolles slapped it on his head.