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The malcontents of the punt paid
little heed to his remonstrances. They resented the entrusting of their
fortunes to one whose chin barely rose above the level of the table.
The banker lit a cigarette and sat back in his chair with a smile of
mockery. His attitude brought up the superfluous flesh about his chin
and the roll of fat at the back of his neck. With his moustache
_en croc_, and his shoebrush hair, I have rarely beheld a more
sensual-looking desperado.
"But gentlemen," said he, "I see no objection whatever to Monsieur
playing the hand."
"Naturally," retorted a voice, "since it would be to your advantage."
The raven in the dinner-jacket commanded silence.
"Gentlemen, I decide that, according to the rules of the game, Monsieur
is entitled to play the hand."
"Bravo!" exclaimed one or two of my friend's supporters.
"_C'est idiot_!" growled the malcontents.
"_Messieurs, faites vos jeux_!" cried the croupier.
The stakes were laid, the banker looked around, estimating the
comparative values of the two tableaux.


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