he rim
of the wheel.

There are thirty-eight of these pockets; two are marked "0" and "00,"
the others numbered from one to thirty-six in an irregular and confusing
order and painted alternately red and black. At each end of the table
are thirty-six large squares correspondingly numbered and coloured. The
"0" and "00" are of a neutral colour. Whenever the ball falls in the "0"
or "00" the bank takes the stakes, or sweeps the the board. The Monte
Carlo wheel has only one "0," while the typical American has two, and
the Chinese has four.

To one like myself who had read of the Continental gambling-houses with
the clink of gold pieces on the table, and the croupier with his wooden
rake noisily raking in the winnings of the bank, the comparative silence
of the American game comes as a surprise.

As we advanced, we heard only the rattle of the ball, the click of the
chips, and the monotonous tone of the spinner: "Twenty-three, black.
Eight, red. Seventeen, black." It was almost like the boys in a broker's
office calling off the quotations of the ticker and marking them up on
the board.

Leaning forward, almost oblivious to the rest, was Percival DeLong, a
tall, lithe, handsome young man, whose boyish face ill comported with
the marks of dissipation clearly outlined on it. Such a boy, it flashed
across my mind, ought to be studying the possible plays of football of
an evening in the field-house after his dinner at the training-table,
rather than the possible gyrations of the little platinum ball on the
wheel.

"Curse the luck!" he exclaimed, as "17" appeared again.

A Hebrew banker staked a pile of chips on the "17" to come up a third
time. A murmur of applause at his nerve ran through the circle. DeLong
hesitated, as one who thought, "Seventeen has come out twice--the odds
against its coming again are too great, even though the winnings would
be fabulous, for a good stake." He placed his next bet on another
number.

"He's playing Lord Rosslyn's system, to-night," whispered my friend.

The wheel spun, the ball rolled, and the croupier called again,
"Seventeen, black." A tremor of excitement ran through the crowd. It was
almost unprecedented.

DeLong, with a stifled oath, leaned back and scanned the faces about the
table.

"And '17' has precisely the same chance of turning up in the next spin
as if it had not already had a run of three," said a voice at my elbow.

It was Kennedy. The roulette-table needs no intr