The Flag of Distress Part 23

They who may have been thus conjecturing, with everybody else, are taken by surprise, in fact, somewhat startled, when the older of the two officers, bending across the table, tosses a hundred pound Bank of England note upon the baize, with as much nonchalance as if it were but a five-dollar bill!

"Shall I give you cheques for it?" asks the croupier, after examining the crisp note--current over all the earth--and knowing it good as gold.

"No," answers Crozier; "not yet. You can give that after the bet's decided--if I win it. If not, you can take the note. I place it on the Queen, against the Knave."

The croupier, simply nodding a.s.sent, places the note as directed.

During the interregnum in which this little episode occurs, the English officers, hitherto scarce noticed, are broadly stared at, and closely scrutinised--Crozier becoming the cynosure of every eye. He stands it with a placid tranquillity, which shows him as careless about what they may think him, as he is of his cash.

Meanwhile, the cards have had a fresh shuffle, and the deal begins anew; all eyes again turning upon the game. In earnest expectancy; those who, like Crozier, have placed upon the Queen, wishing her to show her face first. And she does.

"_Caballo en la puerta mozo_!" (The Queen in the door wins) cries the dealer, the words drawled out with evident reluctance, while a flash of fierce anger is seen scintillating in his eyes.

"Will you take it in cheques?" asks the croupier addressing himself to Crozier, after settling the smaller bets. "Or shall I pay you in specie?"

"You needn't pay yet. Let the note lie. Only cover it with a like amount. I go it double, and again upon the Queen."

Stakes are re-laid--some changed--others left standing or doubled, as Crozier's, which is now a bet for two hundred pounds.

On goes the game, the piece of smooth pasteboard slipping silently from the jewelled fingers of the dealer, whose eye is bent upon the cards, as if he saw through them--or would, if he could. But whatever his wish, he has no power to change the chances. If he have any professional tricks, there is no opportunity for him to practise them. There are too many eyes looking on; too many pistols and bowie-knives about; too many men ready to stop any attempt at cheating, and punish it, if attempted.

Again he is compelled to call out:

"_Caballo en la puerta mozo_!"

"Now, sir," says the croupier to Crozier, after settling other scores, "you want your money, I suppose?"

"Not yet. I'm not pressed, and can afford to wait. I again go double, and am still contented with my Queen."

The dealing proceeds; with four hundred pounds lying on the _Caballo_ to Crozier's account--and ten times as much belonging to other bettors.

For now that the luck seems to be running with the Englishman, most lay their stakes beside his.

Once again: "_Caballo en la puerta mozo_!"

And again Crozier declines to take up his bet.

He has now eight hundred pounds sterling upon the card--sixteen hundred on the turn of the game--while the others, thoroughly a.s.sured that his luck is on the run, double theirs, till the bets against the bank post up to as many thousands.

De Lara begins to look anxious, and not a little downhearted. Still more anxious, and lower in heart, appears him seated on the opposite side--Calderon; for it is his money that is moving away. He is visibly excited. On the contrary, Crozier is as cool as ever, his features set in a rigid determination to do what he promised--break the bank, or lose all he has got about him. The last, not likely yet, for soon again comes the cry:

"_The Queen winner_!"

There is a pause longer than usual, for the settling of such a large score; and after it an interval of inaction. The dealer seems inclined to discontinue; for still lying upon the Queen is Crozier's stake, once more doubled, and now counting three thousand two hundred pounds!

Asked if he intends to let it remain, he replies sneeringly:

"Of course I do; I insist upon it. And once more I go for the Queen.

Let those who like the Knave better, back him!"

"Go on! Go on!" is the cry around the table, from many voices speaking in tone of demand.

De Lara glances at Calderon furtively, but, to those observing it, with a look of interrogation. Whatever the sign, or answer, it decides him to go on dealing.

The bets are again made; to his dismay, almost everybody laying upon the Queen, and, as before, increasing their stakes. And in like proportion is heightened the interest in the game. It is too intense for any display of noisy excitement now. And there is less throughout the saloon; for many from the other tables, as all the saunterers, have collected round, and standing several deep, gaze over one another's shoulders, with as much eager earnestness as if a man were expiring in their midst.

The ominous call at length comes--not in clear voice, or tone exultant, but feeble, and as if rung reluctantly from the lips of the Monte dealer. For it is again a verdict adverse to the bank:

"_Caballo en la puerta mozo_!"

As De Lara utters the words, he dashes the cards down, scattering them all over the table. Then rising excitedly from his chair, adds in faltering tone:

"Gentlemen, I'm sorry to tell you the bank's broke!"

CHAPTER THIRTY ONE.

A PLUCKY "SPORT."

"_The bank's broke_!"

Three words, that, despite their bad grammar, have oft--too oft-- startled the ear, and made woe in many a heart.

At hearing them, the gamesters of the "El Dorado" seated around Frank Lara's Monte table spring to their feet, as if their chairs had suddenly become converted into iron at white heat. They rise simultaneously, as though all were united in a chain, elbow and elbow together.

But while thus gesturing alike, very different is the expression upon their faces. Some simply show surprise; others look incredulous; while not a few give evidence of anger.

For an instant there is silence--the surprise, the incredulity, the anger having suspended speech. This throughout the saloon; for all, bar-drinkers as well as gamesters, have caught the ominous words, and thoroughly understand their import. No longer resounds the c.h.i.n.k of ivory cheques, or the metallic ring of doubloons and dollars. No longer the thudding down of decanters, nor the jingle of gla.s.ses. Instead, a stillness so profound that one entering at this moment might fancy it a Quakers' meeting, but for the symbols seen around--these, anything but Quakerish. Easier to imagine it a grand gambling-h.e.l.l, where dealers, croupiers, players, and spectators have all been suddenly turned to stone, or have become figures in wax-work.

The silence is of the shortest--as also the immobility of the men composing the different groups--only for a half-score seconds. Then there is noise enough, with plenty of gesticulation. A roar arises that fills the room; while men rush about wildly, madly, as if in the courtyard of a lunatic asylum. Some show anger--those who are losers by the breaking of the bank. Many have won large bets, their stakes still lying on the table, which they know will not be paid. The croupier has told them so, confessing his cash-box cleared out at the last settlement; even this having been effected with the now protested ivory cheques.

Some gather up their gold or silver, and stow it in safety, growling, but satisfied that things are no worse. Others are not so lenient.

They do not believe there is a good cause for the suspension, and insist on being paid in full. They rail at the proprietor of the bank, adding menace. De Lara is the man thus marked. They see him before them, grandly dressed, glittering with diamonds. They talk of stripping him of his _bijouterie_.

"No, gentlemen!" he exclaims, with a sardonic sneer. "Not that, if you please--not yet. First hear me, and then it will be time for you to strike."

"What have you to say?" demands one, with his fists full of ivory counters, unredeemed.

"Only that I'm not the _owner_ of this bank, and never have been."

"Who is, then?" ask several at the same time.

"Well; that I can't tell you just now; and, what's more, I _won't_. No, that I won't."

The gambler says this with emphasis, and an air of sullen determination, that has its effect upon his questioners--even the most importunate.

For a time it stays their talk, as well as action.

Seeing this, he follows it up with further speech, somewhat mere conciliatory.