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money was being sprayed light-heartedly in all directions for no apparent reason.There must have been more than a thousand pounds on the carpet.
    But there was nothing light-hearted about the faces of the players.They were intent, set, calculating.The whole business was transacted in terms of fairly subdued calls, except when some gambler, unable to get his stake covered, would shout to attract the attention of players on the other side of the ring.
    Soon everybody settled down and a quiet fell on the room. One of the controllers said, ‘All set?’ and looked around.There were no objections, so he produced two pennies and placed them carefully on the slip of wood the nondescript man was holding.
    The controller stood back.
    ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Spin ’em!’
    The man flipped the piece of wood and the coins spun upinto the air above his head and dropped down on to the carpet.
    There was silence.
    The controllers went over and inspected the coins.
    ‘Tails!’
    Immediately activity burst out in the room as players dived at the pile of notes around the ring, extracting their winnings. Piles of perhaps two hundred pounds were rapidly divided by the simple process of each man taking what was due to him.
    ‘Get the idea, John?’ said Crawford.
    ‘More or less—they just bet on whether the pennies will come down heads or tails, is that it?’
    ‘That’s it.’
    ‘But what’s all this business on the sides about?’
    ‘Well, once the spinner’s bet is covered anyone can have a bet on the side.’
    ‘Then how does the School make a profit?’
    ‘They take a cut from the spinner, and if any of the side blokes have a big win they’re expected to sling a bit.’
    The division of money was complete now and the School was settling down for the next spin.
    ‘You’d think,’ said Grant, ‘that everybody’d be at each other’s throats when they settle, it all seems pretty confused.’
    ‘Hardly ever been a fight in the place. Everybody knows what he’s got coming out of the ring, and he takes it—simple as that. ‘Course it probably wouldn’t work anywhere except in The Yabba. All these blokes know each other, y’know.’
    The pennies were spinning in the air again.
    ‘Tails!’ and again the scramble for winnings.The man with the kip was stolidly surveying the mass of notes at his feet. He looked as though he was wading in money, thought Grant.
    ‘When does he stop spinning?’ he asked Crawford.
    ‘When he likes, or when he throws heads—that means he loses the lot.’
    ‘Does he have to leave all his money in?’
    ‘No, he’s only got to have a quid in the centre.’
    The spinner threw tails again, and Grant calculated that he must now have four hundred pounds in front of him. Grant pushed forward, fascinated by the profusion of crumpled notes.
    The coins flashed in the air once more.
    Again the tails, and this time the spinner tossed down the kip and began to shovel the notes into his pockets. He had turned fifty pounds into eight hundred in less than a quarter of an hour. He picked up the last fistful of notes and thrust them into the hands of one of the controllers, walked out ofthe ring with unmoved countenance, pushed through the crowd and disappeared out of the door.
    ‘That was Charlie Jones,’ said Crawford. ‘He comes in every pay day with fifty quid and throws until he has eight hundred quid or nothing.’
    ‘Does he win or lose in the long run?’
    ‘He pulls out the eight hundred about once every six weeks.’ Crawford added as though in explanation: ‘He’s only got to throw four tails in a row to get that, y’know.’
    ‘Very nice.’
    Another player had taken the kip and laid out an investment of one pound.
    Grant said: ‘My steak’s probably ready.’
    ‘Yes, come on.’
    They went back into the eating room and collected Grant’s steak.
    ‘I’ll have to be pushing off,’ said Crawford, after paternally seeing Grant to a seat at one of the benches.
    ‘All right, Jock,