"_The bank's broke_!"
Three words, that, despite their bad grammar, have oft--too oft--
startled the ear, and made woe in many a heart.
At hearing them, the gamesters of the "El Dorado" seated around Frank
Lara's Monte table spring to their feet, as if their chairs had suddenly
become converted into iron at white heat. They rise simultaneously, as
though all were united in a chain, elbow and elbow together.
But while thus gesturing alike, very different is the expression upon
their faces. Some simply show surprise; others look incredulous; while
not a few give evidence of anger.
For an instant there is silence--the surprise, the incredulity, the
anger having suspended speech. This throughout the saloon; for all,
bar-drinkers as well as gamesters, have caught the ominous words, and
thoroughly understand their import. No longer resounds the chink of
ivory cheques, or the metallic ring of doubloons and dollars. No longer
the thudding down of decanters, nor the jingle of glasses. Instead, a
stillness so profound that one entering at this moment might fancy it a
Quakers' meeting, but for the symbols seen around--these, anything but
Quakerish. Easier to imagine it a grand gambling-hell, where dealers,
croupiers, players, and spectators have all been suddenly turned to
stone, or have become figures in wax-work.
The silence is of the shortest--as also the immobility of the men
composing the different groups--only for a half-score seconds. Then
there is noise enough, with plenty of gesticulation. A roar arises that
fills the room; while men rush about wildly, madly, as if in the
courtyard of a lunatic asylum. Some show anger--those who are losers by
the breaking of the bank. Many have won large bets, their stakes still
lying on the table, which they know will not be paid. The croupier has
told them so, confessing his cash-box cleared out at the last
settlement; even this having been effected with the now protested ivory
cheques.
Some gather up their gold or silver, and stow it in safety, growling,
but satisfied that things are no worse. Others are not so lenient.
They do not believe there is a good cause for the suspension, and insist
on being paid in full. They rail at the proprietor of the bank, adding
menace. De Lara is the man thus marked. They see him before them,
grandly dressed, glittering with diamonds. They talk of stripping him
of his _bijouterie_.
"No, gentlemen!" he exclaims, with a sardonic sneer. "Not that, if you
please--not yet. First hear me, and then it will be time for you to
strike."
"What have you to say?" demands one, with his fists full of ivory
counters, unredeemed.
"Only that I'm not the _owner_ of this bank, and never have been."
"Who is, then?" ask several at the same time.
"Well; that I can't tell you just now; and, what's more, I _won't_. No,
that I won't."
The gambler says this with emphasis, and an air of sullen determination,
that has its effect upon his questioners--even the most importunate.
For a time it stays their talk, as well as action.
Seeing this, he follows it up with further speech, somewhat mere
conciliatory.
"As I've said, gentlemen, I'm not the owner of this concern--only the
dealer of the cards. You ask, who's proprietor of the smashed table.
It's natural enough you should want to know. But it's just as natural
that it ain't my business to tell you. If I did, it would be a shabby
trick; and, I take it, you're all men enough to see it in that light.
If there's any who isn't, he can have my card, and call upon me at his
convenience. My name's Francisco de Lara--or Frank Lara, for short. I
can be found here, or anywhere else in San Francisco, at such time as
may suit anxious inquirers. And if any wants me now, and can't wait,
I'm good this minute for pistols across that bit of board we've just
been seated at. Yes, gentlemen! Any of you who'd relish a little
amusement of that kind, let him come on! It'll be a change from the
Monte. For my part, I'm tired of shuffling cards, and would like to
rest my fingers on a trigger. Which of you feels disposed to give me
the chance? Don't all speak at once!"
No one feels disposed, and no one speaks; at least in hostile tone, or
to take up the challenge. Instead, half a score surround the "sport,"
and not only express their admiration of his pluck, but challenge him to
an encounter of drinks, not pistols.