There it was, reaching out for him, holding out its tentacles that ceased to appear as such and became soft, inviting arms. It was that for which he had ridden through the night; it was that against which he had fought month after month until, this night, he realized that a fight was useless; it was the one solace left him, for indirectly it had brought into his life the glorious thing--and wiped it out again. So why hold off? Why refuse? But those months of fighting! He could not overcome that impetus which his subjective self had received from the struggle. Consciously he wanted the stuff--oh, how he wanted it! But deep in him _something_-- "Not now--thanks," he managed to mutter, and clasped his cards tightly. The bartender turned away, rubbing his chin with one finger, as though perplexed. VB dealt, and with lightning agility. He even broke in on the silence of the playing with senseless chatter when the drinks were brought. He held his cards high that he might not see the glasses, and was glad that the men did not drink at once. Nor did they drink for many moments. The opener was raised twice; few cards were drawn. A check passed one man, the next bet, the next raised, and VB, the deal, came in. The opener raised again and the bartender, seeing, stepped across to watch. The drowsy lounger, sensing the drift of the game, rose to look on. VB dropped out. He held threes, but felt that they had no place in that game. The betting went on and on, up and up, three men bent on raising, the fourth following, intent on having a look, anyhow. VB threw his cards down and dropped his hands loosely on the table. The back of his right hand touched a cold object. He looked down quickly. It was resting against a whisky glass. "And ten more," a player said. "Ten--and another ten." More chips rattled into the pile. His hand stole back and hot fingers reached out to touch with sensitive tips that cool surface. His nostrils worked to catch the scent of the stuff. His hand was around the glass. "I'm staying." "You are--for five more." VB's fingers tightened about the thing, squeezed it in the palm of his hand. It had felt cool at first; now it was like fire. The muscles of that arm strove to lift it. His inner mind struggled, declared against the intention, weakened, yielded, and-- "Well, I'm through. Fight it out." The man at VB's right dropped his cards in disgust and with a quick movement reached for his drink. His nervous, hot hand closed on VB's and their surprised glances met. "Excuse me," muttered VB. "Sure!" said the other, surly over his lost stake, and gulped down the whisky. Two of the players went broke in that pot. The fourth had a scant remnant of his original stack left, and VB was loser. The two who had failed shoved back their hats and yawned, almost simultaneously. "How about it?" asked the winner, stacking his chips. "I'm satisfied," said the man at VB's right. "And VB?" "Here, too!"