"Any amount! Any amount!" snapped back the other, squinting past Fox at Gash Tuttle's roll until one eye was a button and the other a buttonhole. "Twenty-five--thirty--thirty-five--as much as forty dollars. That's how game I am." Avarice gnawed at the taproots of Gash Tuttle's being, but caution raised a warning hand. Fifteen was half of what he had and thirty was all. Besides, why risk all on the first wager, even though there was no real risk? A person so impulsively sportive as this victim would make a second bet doubtlessly. He ignored the stealthy little kick his principal accomplice dealt him on the shin. "I'll make it fur fifteen," he said, licking his lips. "If that's as fur as you kin go, all right," said the slit-eyed man, promptly posting his money in the outstretched hand of the barkeeper, who in the same motion took over a like amount from the slightly trembling fingers of the challenger. Squint-eye picked up the dice cup and rattled its occupants. "Come on now!" he bantered Gash Tuttle. "Whut'll they add up, tops and bottoms?" "Twenty-one!" said Mr. Tuttle. "Out they come, then!" And out they did come, dancing together, tumbling and somersaulting, and finally halting--a deuce, a trey and a four. "Three and two is five and four is nine," Gash Tuttle read off the pips. "Now turn 'em over!" he bade Fox. "That's your job--turn 'em over!" He was all tremulous and quivery inside. In silence Fox drew the nearest die toward him and slowly capsized it. "Four," he announced. He flipped the deuce end for end, revealing its bottom: "Five!" He reached for the remaining die--the four-spot. Dragging it toward him, his large fingers encompassed it for one fleeting instance, hiding it from view entirely; then he raised his hand: "Six!" "Makin' twenty-one in all," stuttered Gash Tuttle. He reached for the stakes. "Nix on that quick stuff!" yelled his opponent, and dashed his hand aside. "The tops come to nine and the bottoms to fifteen--that's twenty-four, the way I figger. You lose!" He pouched the money gleefully. Stunned, Gash Tuttle contemplated the upturned facets of the three dice. It was true--it was all too true! Consternation, or a fine imitation of that emotion, filled the countenances of Flem and of Fox. "That's the first time I ever seen that happen," Fox whispered in the loser's ear. "Bet him again--bet high--and git it all back. That's the ticket!" Mr. Tuttle shook his head miserably, but stubbornly. For this once, in the presence of crushing disaster, the divine powers of retort failed him. He didn't speak--he couldn't! "Piker money! Piker money!" chanted the winner. "Still, ever' little bit helps--eh, boys?"