Bells of Doom

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“ANOTHER deal, gentlemen?”

The question came in a suave tone. It was uttered by a shrewd-faced young man who was one of a party of four. The men were seated at a card table; the tuxedo-clad speaker was riffling a pack of cards as he spoke.

“Let’s call it quits, Claverly,” responded a second player. This man, middle-aged and portly, was pleasant in tone. “We dock in New York early tomorrow. Some sleep wouldn’t do us any harm.”

“All right, Messler,” agreed Claverly. “You’re the heavy loser. You’re the one to choose.”

Messler hesitated. Claverly’s statement made him think of the other players. Messler looked across the table toward a hatchet-faced individual who was clicking a depleted stack of chips.

“You have lost also, Rosling,” observed Messler. “If you would like to extend the game, I am willing.”

“Not for me,” growled Rosling. “I’ve been hooked for enough dough already. You’re the banker, Claverly. Here’re my chips. Cash ‘em.”

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