He went to the club. The game was full, but a "house" player got up and gave him a seat. He bought ten dollars’ worth of chips, and the first hand he picked up was three queens. The pot was opened ahead of him and another man came in. Bodney raised; they stood it, and drew one card each. To disguise his hand, Bodney drew one, holding up a six. He caught a six. The opener bet a white chip. The next man raised him three dollars. Bodney raised all he had. The opener laid down; the other man studied. "Is it that bad?" he asked, peeping at the tips of his cards. Bodney said nothing; his blood was tingling, but in his eyes there was a far-away look. "It’s up to you, Griff," said an impatient fellow. "Yes, so I see; but I’m playing this hand. Raised it and drew one card, then raised a one-card draw. Well, I’ve got to call you." "Queen full." "Beats a flush. Take the hay." And now Bodney’s troubles all were luminous. The wine of the game flowed through his veins and made his heart drunk with delight. He held a pat flush, won a big pot and felt a delicious coolness in his mind, the chamber wherein he had groped through darkness, searching for the lost resolution. But now it was light, and was crowded with charming fancies. He bubbled wit and simmered humor, and the look-out man said, "you bet, he’s a good one." His stack was building so high that he could hardly keep from knocking it over—did overturn it with a crash, and a loud voice called to the porter: "Chip on the floor." The man attendant upon the desk came over, put his hand on Bodney’s shoulder and said: "Give it to ’em; eat ’em up." In the game there was a mind-reader, and they called him Professor. In his "studio" he told marvelous things, brought up the past and read the future. Hundreds of persons consulted him, race-track men looking for tips, board of trade men wanting to know the coming trend of the market; and in the twilight came the blushing maiden to ask if her lover were true. In deepest secret you might write a dozen questions, put them in your pocket and button your coat, but the Professor could read them. He was unquestionably a mind-reader—till he sat down to play poker—and then his marvelous powers failed him. The most unintuitive man at the table could beat him. Bodney slaughtered him. "Can you make those things every time?" said the Professor, calling a three-dollar bet. "Not every time," Bodney replied, spreading a straight, "but I made it this time." "You can make them every time against me. You are the luckiest man I ever saw. Do you always win?" "I have lost more within the last two months than any man that comes up the stairs." "That’s right," said the look-out.