eight minutes to eleven
Once the old man 's pile had diminished to two notes , then the luck had changed and his pile grew larger ; then fell again ; but , as the hands of the clock on the wall above the blue medicine bottles reached a quarter to eleven , it increased steadily throw after throw . Now the player 's fever was in Rawley 's eyes . His face was deadly pale , but his hand threw steadily , calmly , almost negligently , as it might seem . All at once , at eight minutes to eleven , the luck turned in his favour , and his pile mounted again . Time after time he dropped double - sixes . It was almost uncanny . He seemed to see the dice in the box , and his hand threw them out with the precision of a machine .