The Flag of Distress Part 22

His behaviour might be deemed strange, and doubtless would, were there any one to observe it. But there is not; each player is absorbed in his own play, and the calculation of chances.

In addition to watching his fellow-gamesters around the table, the seemingly eccentric individual ever and anon turns his eye upon the dealer--its expression at such times being that of intense earnestness, with something that resembles reproof--as if he were annoyed by the latter handling his cards so carelessly, and would sharply rebuke him, could he get the opportunity without being observed. The secret of the whole matter being, that he is a sleeping partner in the Monte bank--the moneyed one too; most of its capital having been supplied by him. Hence his indifference to the fate of his own stakes--for winning or losing is all the same to him--and his anxiety about those of the general circle of players.

His partnership is not suspected; or, if so, only by the initiated.

Although sitting face to face with the dealer, no sign of recognition pa.s.ses between them, nor is any speech exchanged. They seem to have no acquaintance with one another, beyond that begot out of the game.

And so the play proceeds, amidst the clinking of coin, and clattering of ivory pieces, these monotonous sounds diversified by the calls "Sota"

this, and "Caballo" that, with now and then a "Carajo!" or it may be "Just my luck!" from the lips of some mortified loser. But, beyond such slight ebullition, ill-temper does not show itself, or, at all events, does not lead to any altercation with the dealer. That would be dangerous, as all are aware. On the table, close to his right elbow, rests a double-barrelled pistol, both barrels of which are loaded. And though no one takes particular notice of it, any more than it were a pair of snuffers on their tray, or one of the ordinary implements of the game, most know well enough that he who keeps this standing symbol of menace before their eyes is prepared to use it on slight provocation.

It is ten o'clock, and the bank is in full blast. Up to this hour the players in one thin row around the tables were staking only a few dollars at a time--as skirmishers in advance of the main army, firing stray shots from pieces of light calibre. Now the heavy artillery has come up, the ranks are filled, and the files become doubled around the different tables--two circles of players, in places three, engaging in the game. And instead of silver dollars, gold eagles and doubloons--the last being the great guns--are flung down upon the green baize, with a rattle continuous as the firing of musketry. The battle of the night has begun.

But Monte and Faro are not the only attractions of the "El Dorado." The shrine of Bacchus--its drinking-bar--has its worshippers as well; a score of them standing in front of it, with others constantly coming and going.

Among the latest arrivals are two young men in the attire of navy officers. At a distance it is not easy to distinguish the naval uniforms of nations--almost universally dark blue, with gold bands and b.u.t.tons. More especially is it difficult when these are of the two cognate branches of the great Anglo-Saxon race--English and American.

While still upon the street, the officers in question might have been taken for either; but once within the saloon, and under the light of its numerous lamps, the special insignia on their caps proclaim them as belonging to a British man-of-war. And so do they--since they are Edward Crozier and Willie Cadwallader.

They have entered without any definite design, further than, as Crozier said, to "have a shy at the tiger." Besides, as they have been told, a night in San Francisco would not be complete without a look in upon "El Dorado."

Soon as inside the saloon, they step towards its drinking-bar, Crozier saying--

"Come, Cad! let's do some sparkling."

"All right," responds the descendant of the Cymri, his face already a little flushed with what they have had at the _Parker_.

"Pint bottle of champagne!" calls Crozier.

"We've no pints here," saucily responds the bar-tender--a gentleman in shirt-sleeves, with gold buckles on his embroidered braces--too grand to append the courtesy of "sir."

"Nothing less than quarts," he deigns to add.

"A quart bottle, then!" cries Crozier, tossing down a doubloon to pay for it. "A gallon, if you'll only have the goodness to give it us."

The sight of the gold coin, with a closer inspection of his customers, and perhaps some dread of a second sharp rejoinder, secures the attention of the dignified Californian Ganymede, who, re-using his hauteur, condescends to serve them.

While drinking the champagne, the young officers direct their eyes towards that part of the saloon occupied by the gamesters; where they see several cl.u.s.ters of men collected around distinct tables, some sitting, others standing. They know what it means, and that there is Monte in their midst.

Though Cadwallader has often heard of the game, he has never played it, or been a spectator to its play. Crozier, who has both seen and played it, promises to initiate him.

Tossing off their gla.s.ses, and receiving the change--not much out of a doubloon--they approach one of the Monte tables--that in the centre of the saloon, around which there are players, standing and sitting three deep.

It is some time before they can squeeze through the two outside concentric rings, and get within betting distance of the table. Those already around it are not men to be pushed rudely apart, or make way for a couple of youngsters, however imposing their appearance, or impatient their manner. A mere officer's uniform is not much there, no matter the nationality. Besides, in the circle are officers of far higher rank than they, though belonging to a different service: naval captains and commanders, and of army men, majors, colonels--even generals. What care these for a pair of boisterous subalterns? Or what reck the rough gold-diggers, and stalwart trappers, seen around the table, for any or all of them? It is a chain, however ill-a.s.sorted in its links, not to be severed _sans ceremonie_; and the young English officers must bide their time. A little patience, and their turn will come too.

Practising this, they wait for it with the best grace they can. And not very long. One after another the more unfortunate of the gamesters get played out; each, as he sees his last dollar swept away from him by the ruthless rake of the croupier, heaving a sigh, and retiring from the table; most of them with seeming reluctance, and looking back, as a stripped traveller at the footpad who has turned his pockets inside out.

Soon the outer ring is broken, leaving s.p.a.ces between, into one of which slips Crozier, Cadwallader pressing in along side of him.

Gradually they squeeze nearer and nearer, till they are close to the table's edge.

Having, at length, obtained a position, where they can conveniently place bets, they are about plunging their hands into their pockets for the necessary stakes, when all at once the act is interrupted. The two turn towards one another with eyes, att.i.tude, everything expressing not only surprise, but stark, speech-depriving astonishment.

For on the opposite side of the table, seated in a grand chair, presiding over the game, and dealing out the cards, Crozier sees the man who has been making love to Carmen Montijo--his rival of the morning-- while, at the same instant. Cadwallader has caught sight of _his_ rival--the suitor of Inez Alvarez!

CHAPTER THIRTY.

FIGHTING THE TIGER.

At sight of De Lara and Calderon, the English officers stand speechless, as if suddenly struck dumb; for a pang has shot through their hearts, bitter as poison itself.

Crozier feels it keenest, since it is an affair which most concerns him.

The suitor of Carmen Montijo a "sport"--a common gambler!

Cadwallader is less affected, though he too is annoyed. For although Calderon is in the circle of outside players--apparently a simple _punter_, like the rest--the companionship of the morning, with the relations existing between the two men, tell of their being socially the same. He already knows his rival to be a blackguard; in all likelihood he is also a blackleg.

Quick as thought itself, these reflections pa.s.s through the minds of the young Englishmen; though for some time neither says a word--their looks alone communicating to each other what both bitterly feel.

Fortunately, their surprise is not noted by the players around the table. Each is engrossed in his own play, and gives but a glance at the new-comers, whose naval uniforms are not the only ones there.

But there are two who take note of them in a more particular manner: these, Faustino Calderon and Francisco de Lara. Calderon, looking along the table--for he is on that same side--regards them with glances furtive almost timid. Very different is the manner of De Lara. At sight of Crozier he suspends the deal, his face suddenly turning pale, while a spark of angry light flashes forth from his eyes. The pa.s.sionate display is to all appearance un.o.bserved; or, if so, attributed to some trifling cause, as annoyance at the game going against him. It is almost instantly over; and the disturbed features of the Monte dealer resume their habitual expression of stern placidity.

The English officers having recovered from their first shock of astonishment, also find restored to them the faculty of speech; and now exchange thoughts, though not about that which so disturbs them. By a sort of tacit understanding it is left to another time, Crozier only saying--

"We'll talk of it when we get aboard ship. That's the place for sailors to take counsel together, with a clear head, such as we will want. At this precious minute, I feel like a fish out of water."

"By Jove! so do I."

"The thing we're both thinking of has raised the devil in me. But let us not bother about it now. I've got something else in my mind. I'm half-mad, and intend _fighting the tiger_."

"Fighting the tiger! What do you mean by that, Ned? I don't quite comprehend."

"You soon will. If you wish it, I'll give you a little preliminary explanation."

"Yes, do. Perhaps I can a.s.sist you."

"No, you can't. There's only one who can."

"Who is he?"

"It is not a he, but a she: the G.o.ddess of Fortune. I intend soliciting her favours; if she but grant them, I'll smash Mr De Lara's Monte bank."

"Impossible! There's no probability of your being able to do that."

"Not much probability, I admit. Still there's a possibility. I've seen such a thing done before now. Bold play and big luck combined will do it. I'm in for the first; whether I have the last, remains to be seen.

In any case, I'll either break the bank, or lose all I've got on me-- which by chance is a pretty big stake to begin with. So here goes!"

Up to this time their conversation has been carried on in a low tone; no one hearing or caring to listen to it--all being too much absorbed in their own calculations to take heed of the bets or combinations of others. If any one gives a glance at them, and sees them engaged in their _sotto-voce_ dialogue, it is but to suppose they are discussing which card they had best bet upon--whether the _Sota_ or _Caballo_; and whether it would be prudent to risk a whole dollar, or limit their lay to the more modest sum of fifty cents.