In the mind of the new case-keeper there was but one thought—­Roy must be broken.  Humiliation, disgrace, ruin, ridicule were to be his.  If he should be downed, discredited, and discouraged, then, perhaps, he would turn to her as he had in the by-gone days.  He was slipping away from her—­this was her last chance.  She began her duties easily, and her alertness stimulated Bronco till his senses, too, grew sharper, his observation more acute and lightning-like.  Glenister swore beneath his breath that the cards were bewitched.  He was like a drunken man, now as truly intoxicated as though the fumes of wine had befogged his brain.  He swayed in his seat, the veins of his neck thickened and throbbed, his features were congested.  After a while he spoke.

“I want a bigger limit.  Is this some boy’s game?  Throw her open.”

The gambler shot a triumphant glance at the girl and acquiesced.  “All right, the limit is the blue sky.  Pile your checks to the roof-pole.”  He began to shuffle.

Within the crowded circle the air was hot and fetid with the breath of men.  The sweat trickled down Glenister’s brown skin, dripping from his jaw unnoticed.  He arose and ripped off his coat, while those standing behind shifted and scuffed their feet impatiently.  Besides Roy, there were but three men playing.  They were the ones who had won heaviest at first.  Now that luck was against them they were loath to quit.

Cherry was annoyed by stertorous breathing at her shoulder, and glanced back to find the little man who had been so excited earlier in the evening.  His mouth was agape, his eyes wide, the muscles about his lips twitching.  He had lost back, long since, the hundreds he had won and more besides.  She searched the figures walling her about and saw no women.  They had been crowded out long since.  It seemed as though the table formed the bottom of a sloping pit of human faces—­eager, tense, staring.  It was well she was here, she thought, else this task might fail.  She would help to blast Glenister, desolate him, humiliate him.  Ah, but wouldn’t she!

Roy bet $100 on the “popular” card.  On the third turn he lost.  He bet $200 next and lost.  He set out a stack of $400 and lost for the third time.  Fortune had turned her face.  He ground his teeth and doubled until the stakes grew enormous, while the dealer dealt monotonously.  The spots flashed and disappeared, taking with them wager after wager.  Glenister became conscious of a raging, red fury which he had hard shift to master.  It was not his money—­what if he did lose?  He would stay until he won.  He would win.  This luck would not, could not, last—­and yet with diabolic persistence he continued to choose the losing cards.  The other men fared better till be yielded to their judgment, when the dealer took their money also.