lose momentum the ball strikes
against the rods and finally is deflected into one of the many little
pockets or stalls facing the rim of the wheel.

There are thirty-eight of these pockets; two are marked "0" and
"00," the other 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
colored. The "0" and "00" are of a neutral color. Whenever the ball
falls in the "0" or "00" the bank takes the stakes, or sweeps 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 stiffed oath, leaned back and scanned the faces about
the table.

"And '17' has precisely the same chance of turning up in the next
spin a