he put it away from him. With a gentleman he
might have done it, with this man before him it was impossible. He must
take his chances; and it was the only chance in which he had hope now,
unless he appealed for humanity's sake, for the girl's sake, and told the
real truth. It might avail. Well, that would be the last resort.

"For small stakes?" said the grimy quack, in a gloating voice.

Rawley nodded, and then added: "We stop at eleven o'clock, unless I've
lost or won all before that."

"And stake what's left on the last throw?"

"Yes."

There was silence for a moment, in which Rawley seemed to grow older, and
a set look came to his mouth--a broken pledge, no matter what the cause,
brings heavy penalties to the honest mind. He shut his eyes for an
instant, and, when he opened them, he saw that his fellow-gambler was
watching him with an enigmatical and furtive smile. Did this Caliban have
some understanding of what was at stake in his heart and soul?

"Play!" Rawley said, sharply, and was himself again.

For hour after hour there was scarce a sound, save the rattle of the dice
and an occasional exclamation from the old man as he threw a double-six.
As dusk fell, the door had been shut and a lighted lantern was hung over
their heads.

Fortune had fluctuated. Once the old man's pile had diminished to two
notes, then the luck had changed and his pile grew larger; then fell
again; but, as the hands of the clock on the wall above the blue medicine
bottles reached a quarter to eleven, it increased steadily throw after
throw.

Now the player's fever was in Rawley's eyes. His face was deadly pale, but
his hand threw steadily, calmly, almost negligently, as it might seem. All
at once, at eight minutes to eleven, the luck turned in his favor, and his
pile mounted again. Time after time he dropped double-sixes. It was almost
uncanny. He seemed to see the dice in the box, and his hand threw them out
with the precision of a machine. Long afterward he had this vivid illusion
that he could see the dice in the box. As the clock was about to strike
eleven he had before him three thousand eight hundred dollars. It was his
throw.

"Two hundred," he said, in a whisper, and threw. He won.

With a gasp of relief, he got to his feet, the money in his hand. He
stepped backward from the table, then staggered, and a faintness passed
over him. He had sat so long without moving that his legs bent under him.
There was a pail of water